Shadow Child
by toastedcheese
Summary: A young Elf of unusual heritage struggles to find his place in the world. AU. Complete. Revised March 2005.
1. Ring of Adamant

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.  
**Timeline:** S.A. 3433  
**Rating (this chapter):** G

**Shadow Child  
Chapter I: Ring of Adamant**

The palace was in ruins. Though once it had gleamed so brightly upon the great hill, it was now little more than a shell, crumbled and disfigured by the attack. The walls were marred with scorch marks, the interior plundered. Trampled grass and bloodstains marked the ground around it, testimonies to those who had fallen there, wounded or dead.

Celeborn turned away from the sight, only to be faced with more of the same. The lofty _mellyrn_ were broken and mutilated, golden leaves shaken prematurely to the ground. Some were charred, the white flets in them destroyed. Here too the blood of the fallen could be seen, dark stains upon the white paths and open fields, a stark contrast to the golden elanor and pale niphredil.

It was quiet, despite the agitated voices rising from the medics' pavilion and the muted conversation of the border guards, discussing a patrol scheme to ensure that the remainder of the Orc party did not return. For it had not been a full-fledged attack, but rather a raiding incursion, fought with fire as much as swords. Of course, the brutes made sure to cause as much damage as possible while they were at it. Such attacks were frequent, especially during the winter season when supplies were scarce, but none had been so violent as this.

He sighed and turned to walk away when a sharp pain reminded him why he was not conferring with the patrol right now. The wound across his left shoulder was not deep, but it still required tending. It would not do to be incapacitated by such a minor injury when King Amdír was grievously wounded. While Amroth, the king's son, was both brave and trustworthy, Celeborn did not wish to place such responsibility on his shoulders at such short notice.

When he arrived at the pavilion for the wounded, he found that it was becoming less crowded. There had been only a few deaths—regrettable, but not nearly as disastrous as what might have been. For though there were many wounded, of these only a few needed to be under constant care. Most, like Celeborn, had escaped with a surface wound. The Orcs would ruin and pillage where they could, but they dared not kill too many elves, thereby solidifying their animosity. In this season, they could not afford a counterstrike.

So it had been a primarily supply-oriented raid—or so it seemed. Yet what could explain...

Not now.

"Randuil," he called, seeing that the medic was unoccupied.

Randuil nodded in his direction, motioning for him to rest upon an unoccupied couch.

"Remove your tunic, please," the healer said, frowning at the blood that had soaked through the garment. As Celeborn tried to one-handedly wrestle it off, Randuil prepared bandages.

"How is the king?" Celeborn asked as Randuil washed the wound.

Randuil glanced at the bower where Amdír now rested. "He will recover, though I am not certain he will be able to make much use of his right arm in the future. It was sorely wounded."

"Amdír is strong. He will find a way to counter any lingering effects."

"That he will," said the elf. "I cannot think of another whom I would more willingly follow, in battle or otherwise. He has done much for this land and its people, even when—" but he broke off, suddenly becoming very involved in wrapping the white cloth bandage around Celeborn's shoulder.

"If you resent the troubles that have accompanied the Noldor to Middle-earth, I do not think less of you," said Celeborn gently.

Randuil look at him, astonished. "I mean no disrespect," he said. "They are a great people. But the fact remains that so many of the sorrows that have befallen our land can be traced back to the Noldor and their precious jewels."

_And rings?_ Celeborn thought, but said nothing. It did not do to speak so openly of the Rings of Power, and anyway, he could not bear to dwell on a topic that would inevitably remind him of her.

Randuil's thoughts seemed to be running much the same way, for he asked softly, "Has there been any word?"

"No," replied Celeborn with a sigh. "I know not what to think. I do not think my wife is dead—and yet, if that is not so, then what? Wounded in some isolated region of the woods that the scouts have not yet searched?"

Randiul did not answer.

"I am finished," he announced finally. "The wound should heal swiftly. It was slight."

"Thank you," Celeborn said, standing and putting on his tunic. He was about to leave, but there was a thoughtfulness to Randuil's silence that stayed his departure. "What is it?" he asked.

"My lord—" He hesitated. "I do not mean to be a harbinger of ill portents—but what if she has been captured?"

"It has occurred to me," said Celeborn. "But to what end? The Last Alliance prepares for battle. The siege will begin soon. The Dark Lord must know at least some of this. Unless he is fey, or has some assurance of his success of which we cannot begin to dream, he is preparing for battle, not carrying out old vengeances."

And yet: he could not forget Eregion, when the Lord of Gifts had bought the hearts of all save Galadriel's alone. He had never suspected that Annatar was anything but a kind stranger, but she had distrusted him from the beginning. When Sauron had driven the people to revolt against their rule, it was Galadriel whom they were truly rejecting. Yes, Sauron hated Galadriel. Was this hatred strong enough to provoke such an untimely reaction?

"I pray Elbereth it is not so," he murmured, his heart heavy with fear.

  


That night, the scouts returned. Galadriel had not been found. The news weighed heavily on Celeborn, and at supper he ate little, instead reviewing the possibilities in his mind. She had perished in the Silverlode. The scouts had missed some small parcel of land that she lay, dying or dead. She had fled past the boundaries of Lórinand itself. (1) But all of these seemed unlikely to the point of impossibility. That left but one possibility that he could see—that she had been taken by the Orcs. 

After the meal, he went to speak with Amdír. He found the king alert, speaking in hushed tones with his son, who sat beside his couch.

"Celeborn, my friend, sit down!" said Amdír upon seeing him. His voice was soft and hoarse.

Celeborn nodded, taking a seat beside him. "How are you, my lord?" he asked, taking in the thick bandages swaddling the king's arm and side and the pallor of his face.

Amdír smiled slightly. "Ah, well, I have certainly been better, but with my son's company and the fine doctoring of Master Randuil, I have no doubt that I will weather this present storm. But you, Celeborn: my son has told me that you suffer from a grief far more devastating than a mere physical wound."

"Yes," said Celeborn. "I fear—"

But at that moment, an elf burst into the tent. A scout, if he recognized the face correctly. He was breathing heavily, and seemed to be grasping something in his hand.

"What is it, Orophin?" asked Amdír, straightening up.

Orophin approached the bower, bowing slightly to Amdír. "My lord, I have found something, stumbled upon it really. I cannot explain it..."

"Pray, what is this mysterious item?" asked Celeborn, in a tone perhaps too harsh.

The young elf lifted his hand and slowly, almost hesitantly, began to open it.

At first Celeborn thought that he was gazing upon a star, glittering white so that it illuminated Orophin's hand. But gradually the light diminished, until he could see it for what it was—a ring of bright mithril, set with a shimmering white stone.

"Is this a Ring of Power?" exclaimed Amdír. "I have often wondered at the effect your presences have on Lórinand. There is never bad weather when you are here. Am I right in thinking that Lady Galadriel keeps this?"

"Yes," Celeborn affirmed. "Of course, she cannot wear it, but she keeps it on her person on all times. She would not lose it or cast it aside needlessly. It is a powerful thing even when it is not worn. Be forewarned, you three are not to share this with anyone. It is not permitted to speak of the Rings or their bearers." He turned to Orophin. "Where did you find this?"

"On the path that leads out of the gardens, my lord," Orophin replied rather breathlessly. "I was surveying the grounds, searching for any trace of a struggle. It shone like a Silmaril, even brighter than just now. There were many tracks on the path, Orcish by look."

"Then she may be alive!" Amroth exclaimed.

Celeborn nodded, his face stoic. He could not decide if he was relieved or terrified by the finding. "So it seems. It may be that she left it there in order to prevent it from falling into unclean hands."

"Well," said Amdír. "I shall organize a rescue party comprised of my best trackers. The weather is foul outside of the bounds of this land. If she has indeed been captured by the Orcs, perhaps their journey has been slowed." He looked at Orophin. "Go, tell the leaders of the southern patrol to come here immediately. The party must leave as soon as possible. You will want to be part of it, I suppose, Celeborn?"

"You are injured; perhaps it would be better—"

"It would not be better!" Amroth interrupted. Celeborn looked to him with raised eyebrows. "Forgive me for interrupting," the prince continued, "but I am certain that I will be able to assist my father in his duties. You should go if you want to, as I am sure you do."

Celeborn nodded in thanks, allowing himself to feel grateful for Amroth's boldness.

"If that is settled, go now, Orophin," said the king.

"Of course. But first." Orophin handed the ring to Celeborn. "I would not carry it myself for a moment longer. Take it, please."

Celeborn accepted the ring, but with heavy heart. He stared at the ring lying in his palm, glittering white. It was too fair, too fair for any hand but hers. He tucked it away in his pocket—out of sight, but hardly out of mind.

* * *

1. Lórinand - an older name of Lórien 


	2. Annatar

**Disclaimer: **Tolkien created Middle-earth, I didn't.  
**Timeframe:** S.A. 3433  
**Rating:** Rated PG-13 for implied rape.

**Shadow Child**  
**Chapter II: Annatar**

Footsteps echoed in the passageway. At the sound, Galadriel raised her head and listened, her heart chilled with a sudden inexplicable dread. She could not name this fear, could not explain it. After a month in the dungeons of Mordor, what could alarm her so? Immediately, her mind jumped to the disconcertion of waking upon a coal black steed, a Nazgûl walking at her side, but it was not that. The Nazgûl that had brought her thence had cast a vague, desolate shadow upon everything around it. This was more focused, more daunting. Who was the owner of these footsteps, then? As far as she knew, only Orcs roamed the dank, poorly lit passages of the dungeons. Yet as she listened to the heavy footfalls coming towards her, she wondered...

Abruptly, they stopped. She saw a dark shadow at the door, heard the clattering of keys. The grotesque figure that subsequently entered the room confirmed her worst fears. Tall he was, and hideous to look upon, red eyes smoldering amidst a cruel, deformed face. She felt her heartbeat quicken, but she did not look away.

"And so we meet again, Lord Annatar," she said, sarcasm heavy in her voice.

At this Sauron grinned, revealing rows of dark, jagged teeth. "Ah, this is why I always loved you, Galadriel," he said, attempting a smooth, jesting tone that his raucous voice could not support. "So proud, and yet so dignified." He lifted up her chin with a scaly, claw-like finger that she longed to push away, but could not, for her hands were bound to the wall with chains. "Your beauty has not faded, I see?"

"Have you only come to scoff at me, or is there a point to your visit?"

Sauron shook his head at her, but removed his hand. "If you think I am here to patronize you, you mistake me. But I can see that my form alarms you. I will do my best to amend this."

There was a pause, during which it seemed that Sauron was gathering all the strength he could muster. The dark form vanished and a new one took its place—that of a man, equally as tall but uncommonly handsome. So had he appeared so many years ago in Eregion, when even Celebrimbor had fallen under his sway.

And only now did Galadriel turn away. "Such an exterior does not conceal a blemished heart," she said.

"No," Sauron replied. "No, it does not." He caught her gaze then, and held it, until she felt as if his eyes were delving inside of her, exposing the darkest caverns of her soul, and then gloating over the discovery. It was a skill that she herself possessed, but where she used it in order to understand others, Sauron used it to destroy them.

"I know what you want," he said in a low, charismatic voice, and Galadriel listened, though guardedly. "You are of the Noldor. Your people went through many hardships, and for what? So that you might dwindle as a people, living among the uncouth and forgetting all that you came for? It need not end that way."

"You speak as though you pity us," said Galadriel. "Do not forget that it was your master, Morgoth, that brought so many sorrows upon us, even if in our folly we worsened our lot."

"Morgoth was a fool!" Sauron exclaimed. "He sought only to destroy without regard. In the end, he destroyed himself as well. What I speak of is mastery. It is an interest we have in common, I think?" He grew closer to her, so that she could feel his shadow looming over her, blocking the little light that shone from torches in the passageway.

"Do not think we are alike, Sauron," she said. "If I have coveted power, it was never with such cruel intent."

Sauron smiled slightly. "I was like you once. I know it seems unthinkable, for I do not deny that you are right. We are not the same, not anymore. But once—" He paused, and the next words, though detached from emotion, seemed to rise up from a deep well of memory. "I was a student of Aulë, like your people. I had great reverence for Ilúvatar and for the earth. It was more... constant than other things. While the fruits of the earth, the trees and plants, had been destroyed in the war with Morgoth, and the forms of the mountains were overthrown, the earth itself, the metals and stone, continued on." He saw Galadriel's surprise. "No, I was not under Morgoth in the Beginning. Only later, when, like you, I began to lose faith..."

Galadriel suddenly perceived what he was doing. "Stop this!" she exclaimed, and, gratifyingly, Sauron was silent. "Do not think that you can fool me with this story. Though I do not doubt it is true, it is but the last whispers of a dead man."

"Enough of the past," Sauron agreed, although he did not indicate if Galadriel's words were correct. "Let us return to the topic at hand. Mastery, I think it was."

She sighed at his persistence. "I wish none of it. Now let us end this meaningless speech."

Sauron went on as if she had not spoken. "Do not deny that you have desired it, Galadriel, for all your noble words and thoughts. Do not pretend that it is not what you have sought all your life."

Galadriel said nothing, but again sensed the weak spot in her heart that Sauron had uncovered. She turned her eyes away from him. A thought emerged in her mind, and she clung to it. She began to chant; though her lips did not move, the words rang out in her mind. _A Elbereth Gilthoniel, silivren penna míriel, o menel aglar elenath!_ Her thoughts drifted into Quenya, her native tongue, and the words gradually changed: _O Varda, Star-kindler, give me strength! All light that proceeds from me is yours; alone, I am wreathed in shadows._ But Sauron's voice was more present, more commanding, and gradually her prayer dissipated as she returned her attention to his words.

"You are strong, so powerful," he was saying. "Imagine what you might do, if only you had the means. You know this." And he looked into her eyes, but this time she did not feel the uncomfortable wrenching of her heart.

She saw instead a vision of herself, beautiful and powerful beyond compare. A scepter in her hand, she would rule a kingdom greater than any other: surpassing Valinor itself. Queen of the earth and the heavens, all would bow down to her. "All shall love me and despair!"

She spoke the last words aloud, though softly and with voice trembling, echoes of what seemed a distant forgotten memory. And Annatar touched her cheek with his smooth, warm hand and said, "Nerwende, if you should be my bride! We would have a child more beautiful and terrible than the world yet has seen!" (1)

Galadriel looked up at him, saw his eyes shining in expectation.

"By the memory of Finrod, get away from me!" she cried. She was half-sick with shame. True, he had spoken fairly, using all his powers of persuasiveness, but now she saw plainly his motives. How had he lulled her thus far?

Sauron removed his hand—and slapped her across the face. The blow smarted, but she forced herself to keep her head high, as if unmoved.

"You are a fool, I see," he finally said, voice suddenly hideous—or had it always been thus? "I have offered you what others would take eagerly, and you refuse it! Still, I will give you time to rethink—"

"I need no such time!" she exclaimed. "You ask me to reject all I hold dear, and think I will submit easily? I tell you, you might wait ten thousand years, and I still would not give myself to you willingly."

Sauron sighed. "Ah, well," he said, shaking his head in mock pity. "I see this will be more difficult than I foresaw. Just remember that I did not lie, and I get no pleasure from your agony. Well," he amended, "not much. The sight of watching you suffer may yield some joy."

If her heart had been weak before, it now stopped cold. "If you dare to touch me—" But as she spoke, she was reminded of the chains that bound her to the wall. Though she was strong, she could hardly break steel.

Sauron clutched her shoulders with a painful grip and shoved her against the rough stone wall so forcefully that she nearly cried out. But she bit her tongue. She would not cry out. Although it was a hopeless task, she began to strain at her chains. Meanwhile, Sauron inclined towards her ear.

"It will only be a moment," he whispered, his voice hissing, demonic. And then he smiled, a crooked, sadistic smile that would torment her mind long after the pain ended.

* * *

1. Nerwende - One of Galadriel's names in Valinor, before the name "Galadriel" was given to her by Celeborn as a sort of nickname. Nerwende is spelled "Nerwen" in Unfinished Tales, but it's Nerwende in HoME. "-wende" is definitely more Quenya-looking than "-wen". Everything about Galadriel is confusing. 

A few liberties with canon are taken in this chapter, as part of the premise of this story. They can primarily be attributed to my ignorance at the time of writing. Whether Sauron could manage to take on a fair form at the end of the Second Age, however briefly, is decidedly dubious. Galadriel's survival of her rape is somewhat more defendable. For one thing, the passage revealing that death is the inevitable fate of a raped elf is only retained in the first draft of Laws and Customs of the Eldar. Tolkien quite possibly left it out of the final draft for purposes of style and organization, not because he changed his mind, but this is not certain. At any rate, if any Elf were to survive a rape, Galadriel would be a likely candidate; her strength of will might be just enough to counteract the spiritual pain of the experience.


	3. Heir

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien created the world, I didn't.  
**Timeframe:**3434 S.A.  
**Rating:** Rated PG-13 for themes of rape.

**Shadow Child  
Chapter III: Heir**

The dungeons of the outpost were cold and damp. Occasional torches mounted on the cracked stone walls shed just enough light for Celeborn to find his way through the winding passageways. If there were prisoners in the cells that he passed, he did not notice. He only knew that Galadriel was here, somewhere, and that he must find her.

It had come to him near the end of the battle, just as their victory seemed imminent: the memory of Doriath the night that they had met. Her hair had shone with a light of its own, the golden strands touched with silver moonlight, as she gazed at him with eyes that told him his heart was no longer his own. After the vision, he had known beyond a doubt that she was being held there. It had brought hope to his heart, a hope that had lay dormant since the first rescue attempt had failed, when they had realized that the path of the orcs led to Mordor, a land that was unassailable by so few warriors. What was he to think after that? By the time the Last Alliance assailed Mordor, he feared that it would be too late. Indeed, he guessed this still would have been true, had Galadriel been imprisoned in Barad-dûr itself rather than a lesser outpost of Mordor. It might have been months, even years, until they reached her.

He turned the corner, and she was there. She stood behind a barred door, her hands gripping the iron bars. She did not seem surprised to see him; indeed, it was if she had been expecting him, just as he had sensed the presence of her thoughts during the battle.

He rushed towards her and took one of her hands in his. Her hand was warm, a surprising contrast with the cold iron bar. "A moment," he murmured, fishing out the skeleton key that he had filched from the body of a fallen Orc, and quickly unlocking the door. When this was accomplished, she pushed the door aside and ran to him, embracing him tightly.

As he held her in his arms, kissing her brow, he felt that something was different. When he stood back to see, he gasped, for she was heavy with child.

"Galadriel," he began, but she held up her hand, silencing him. Thus they stood for some seconds. She seemed more than troubled, her face weary and racked with anguish. Her eyes were focused downwards, as if lost in some deep reverie, and when he examined them closer, he saw that they were clouded with despair.

"Do not look so, Nerwen," he said, taking her hand in his. (1) "We will leave this place. You are safe." At this she stirred, and smiled slightly at him, but he sensed that this was more of a reaction to his efforts than to his actual words.

"And think," he added, smiling at her swollen abdomen, "a child. It will not be easy to raise a young one in this time of war, but I cannot help but be joyful all the same. I am surprised that you did not know."

At these words, a shadow passed over Galadriel's face. "No, I did not know," she said sharply. Then, abruptly: "Let us be gone. I do not wish to idle in this loathsome dungeon forever."

"Of course," he said, and took her arm in his so that she might have support while walking. At this gesture, she looked up at him with a gentler expression on her face, as if to apologize for the harshness of her words.

"Much troubles me," she explained. "I will explain more tonight; now is not the time."

These words puzzled him, but he accepted her apology with a nod. She clung more tightly to his arm, and so they swiftly left the dungeon.

  


That night, Galadriel seemed less sorrowful than before, though just as solemn. She spoke seldom, but when she did, her voice was clear and even, as if the memory of her prison was a thing forgotten. Soon after eating, she rested against the trunk of an ancient maple and became lost in memory, as Elves were wont to do in place of mortal sleep. As he watched her from the campfire, something about her appearance concerned him—perhaps it was the deep flush of her cheeks, as if a fire was blazing within her, perhaps the fact that she was wearing such a thin, ragged dress on so cold a night. He left the campfire and sat down beside her, wrapping his cloak around her.

"Celeborn," she murmured, her eyes refocusing. "Ah, but you startled me from such a vision! I stood on the coast, and the ships were in flames on the far shore... the beach was still stained with the blood of my kin." She composed herself suddenly, pushing back the tendrils of golden hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. "But enough of this. You wish to know what is wrong with me, and I intend to tell you." She paused for a moment. "It is not an easy thing to say. You have not guessed at it, I see. But I would not conceal it from you." She took her hand in his—her hand was still so warm!—and placed it against her abdomen. "What do you feel?"

As her hand was warm, her stomach was twice this. "I don't understand!" he exclaimed. "What is wrong?"

She shook her head. "Nothing, nothing and everything. For the child receives this fiery potency from his parent—from his father."

The implications of her words forced him into silence, such was his horror.

"It is of the Enemy," she continued. Her voice was strangely dispassionate. "Do you understand? He sees the possibility of his doom approaching. He must have an heir, immortal and powerful, that might prepare for his return. And so he has created one, in me." Still, Celeborn sat motionless, his mind a whirlwind of thought. "Celeborn, what think you?"

When he spoke, his voice was shaky. "I know not what to think!" he confessed. "That such a thing of evil was done to you, I cannot bear. It is a wonder that you live at all. And more troubles me, for what shall be done with the child?"

Galadriel's reply was almost immediate. "He shall not be harmed!" Celeborn frowned at the severity of her voice. "Do not misunderstand me," she continued in a softer tone. "But what else can I do? He is my child—my son. I cannot help but love him. For evil is not passed down through generations, like an ill-wrought surname."

"And yet predilection for evil is!" Celeborn retorted.

But Galadriel shook her golden locks. "Nay, I cannot believe that, for Morgoth, the root of all such darkness, sprang from the light of Ilúvatar, was brother to him who reigns on the Mountain. He was given much power, not evil inherent. True, my son will be strong. And yet, as long as he is guided in the ways of good, making the choice that all must make, so will he also focus his strengths—towards the good." She looked at him pleadingly. "Can you do that? Can you accept him as a son? I know too well that it is no easy favor to ask, but I would not ask if it were not so important."

Celeborn closed his eyes for a moment in introspection. What would he say? He could hardly be unafraid of this child, the child that had been conceived so cruelly and derived its strength from so foul a source. Still, he trusted Galadriel's wisdom in this matter, and knew that her words made sense. What else, indeed, could they do?

"I promise to do this," he vowed, "as long as good is served. And yet," he continued, "I must confess, I fear what might become of this child."

Galadriel sighed softly, her eyes gazing into the heart of the nearby campfire. "So do I."

* * *

1. Nerwen - Galadriel's mother name. As a Sindar, Celeborn might well use the Sindarin rendering. See chapter two notes for more information. 

More canon quibbles greet us in chapter three. Would Celeborn and Galadriel still be sexually active at this point in their marriage? Unlikely, but an easy mistake considering I hadn't read _Morgoth's Ring_ yet. Would Sauron be able to father a child without permanently making himself an Elf? Sticklers for canon would look to the example of Melian as a standard (although even Melian was able to return to her natural form long after Lúthien was born.) I can only entreat the reader to smile, nod, and suspend disbelief.


	4. Findur

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien created the world, I didn't.  
**Timeframe:** T.A. 11  
**Rating:** Rated PG-13 for themes of rape.

**Shadow Child  
Chapter IV: Findur**

"What are you looking at?"

Findur, curled up in a chair beside his bedroom window, looked up at his sister with a shy smile. "Just something that I made." He showed her the wood carving sitting on his palm.

Celebrían arched her eyebrows. "It's quite lovely," she murmured, admiring the small wooden bird. Findur grinned. His sister was very picky; he took it as a compliment if she said something was just adequate. Lovely was something else entirely, especially when it was only a little carving that had taken him almost no time to make.

"You're full of surprises," she was saying, smiling at him and shaking her head, her long, straight hair swishing like silvery wheat. "But what I've come to tell you is that Mother has returned."

Findur leaped out of the chair. He handed the carving to Celebrían. "Keep it," he told her, and began to run. Finally, after more than a week away, his mother was back! She had never been away for more than a day before, and even that was a rare occurrence. He had missed her terribly.

It had happened like this—one afternoon, a messenger had arrived suddenly from Mithlond. A ship had come into the Havens, and there was a passenger on it that wanted to see his mother. Now, this was strange news, for the ship must have come from the West, from Valinor itself, and this had not happened for a whole age, not since the war that defeated Morgoth and destroyed Beleriand in the process. Whatever this stranger had come to say, it must be important indeed.

So his mother had packed some things and, with an escort (not that Findur could seriously imagine her needing such protection), had left Rivendell. It was a long journey to Mithlond, although a relatively safe one. He had begged to be able to go, but his parents had patiently explained that a young boy was not very helpful on an important journey. "Next time," Mother had told him with a smile. Whatever that meant. He hadn't ever been away from home, and was beginning to suspect that he never would. Grownups were always so protective.

As Findur neared the front entrance, he heard the familiar voices of his mother and father. He started to run even faster. In less than a minute, he was launching himself into his mother's arms.

"Hello, Findur," she said with a laugh. She knelt so that she could hold him more easily. "I'm glad to see you as well."

Something in her voice seemed wrong—sad, he thought. He let go, and took a long time staring at her face. Her blue eyes mirrored what he had heard in her voice. And it wasn't all sadness that she felt; there was hope as well. _Hope of release_, he thought. He wasn't at all sure what that meant, but it seemed like the right words.

"Who wanted to see you in Mithlond?" he asked. Maybe this would explain what was wrong with her.

"It was my father, Finarfin," she said.

Findur's eyes grew wide. He had never thought much about his mother's relatives in the West. It was too strange to think of such an ancient, wise person having a mother and father herself. "What did he say?" he asked.

"He sent word from my family," she said. "My mother, my brothers who have come out of Mandos." She smiled. "You have a cousin, the daughter of Finrod."

"But there must be more," said Findur. "Surely he would not have come all this way—"

His father, who had been watching until now, stepped in. "It is the business of the Wise," he said. The business of the Wise was a joke between the two of them; it meant anything with which small children should not concern themselves.

Findur scowled, but nodded again. "All right. I'm glad you're home. I'm glad you saw your father."

"So am I." She kissed him on the forehead. "Now go with your father. I have some things to discuss with Master Elrond."

Findur watched her as she glided out of the room. He decided that there could be no one as beautiful as his mother. Well, maybe a Vala, like Elbereth. He told this to his father, who chuckled.

"You will get no argument from me," Father said. "I do not know much of the Valar. The only glimpses of Valinor that I have seen are in Queen Melian and King Thingol's faces—and in the light of the Trees caught up in your mother's hair."

  


They were speaking in Quenya. This struck Findur as very strange, since not even his parents used that ancient tongue very often. If they had something private to say, they could usually communicate it with a glance. It must be a very secret, very complex matter indeed that required such a language.

He had not meant to eavesdrop, for his parents had obviously chosen a place in which they thought they would not be heard, a balcony that was quite far from any occupied room. It wasn't his fault that his hearing was so keen and that his handle on Quenya was good enough that he could pick up most of their conversation, even when lying in his bed five rooms away.

"Now will you tell me what this is about?" Father was asking her. "You spoke to Elrond before you spoke to me. Why?"

"I was conveying messages from his parents," Mother explained. "There would have been news for Círdan as well, if he had any family in Valinor."

"But there is more."

"Yes." There was a pause. "They have granted me pardon, Celeborn. I am free to return from exile if I wish."

Findur started at this. His mother had been in exile? He had always thought that she had been pardoned before like everyone else and had chosen not to leave. Now that she could go, would she? Would he and Father and Celebrían go with her? The thought troubled him so that he forgot to listen, until he heard his name mentioned. "You must stay with Findur," Mother was saying. Then he had been right. She was going, and she was leaving them behind.

Father seemed as unhappy about this as he was. "If it were only for a time... but what might be an eternity? I could not bear it."

Their voices grew softer but more agitated, so that their words were harder to understand. There was something about a ring, and an heir, and his name was mentioned several times. There seemed to be a thing, or perhaps things, that could not be brought to the West. Mother spoke of some hurt that only the West could heal, and made Father promise to look after Celebrían and himself. "It will be forever," he heard her say. "Only a precaution. As soon as we know for certain." More confusing discussion. And then a long silence.

"I would not go if I saw some other way," Mother said finally, her voice trembling. "It is as if I am drowning in the darkness. Everything that once filled me with meaning is now so many shadows. My soul is dying, beloved. It is a hurt that the Blessed Lands alone can heal."

Findur was weeping. He did not understand any of this, what had hurt Mother so, or why they could not come with her, or why even Father could not convince her to stay. How could anything be right without her?

He did not sleep that night, and at dawn Father and Mother came into his room, a very pale-faced Celebrían trailing behind.

"Findur," Mother said softly. "We have something to tell you."


	5. Birthright

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien's. Not mine.  
**Timeframe:** T.A. 45  
**Rating (this chapter):** Rated PG-13 for themes of rape.

**Shadow Child  
Chapter V: Birthright**

_An sí Tintallë Varda Oiolossëo  
ve fanyar máryat Elentári ortanë  
ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë_

"I've finished it!" Findur exclaimed as he ran into the room.

Father and Celebrían both looked up, wearing startled expressions. "What's this?" Father asked, motioning for Findur to sit.

"My sword, of course!" Findur replied. He sat down in the chair across from them and proudly held forth the black-hilted weapon.

"Of course. How could I forget," Father said with mock annoyance, undoubtedly referring to Findur's enthusiasm about the project, an excitement that manifested itself in the form of daily updates on his progress. "Come, let's see it."

Findur handed the sword to his father, who drew it from the scabbard, revealing a long, narrow blade with a simple vining design on its side. The late afternoon sun slanted through the window and glanced off the blade, causing it to gleam with a luminosity that recalled moonlight.

Both Father and Celebrían nodded approvingly. "Not bad for the horseshoe-maker of Imladris," Celebrían quipped, but she was smiling. Findur made a face at her; though it was true that this was his primary work at the forge, it was not a very dignified-sounding job.

"Excellent craftsmanship," Father agreed, turning the sword over in his hands. "I must say, I am impressed. You have outdone yourself, my son."

Findur beamed. "Narion felt the same," he revealed. "He said it was the best he'd seen from someone so young." He laughed suddenly, abashed at his shameless pride. "It probably wasn't true. Narion himself must have done better, along with half the folk of Imladris."

"Don't be so sure," Celebrían said earnestly. "You may only be an apprentice of Narion, but then again, he has no others, only a few fellow journeymen. If Narion decides to go over Sea, you'll surely become one of them, perhaps even the master someday."

Findur only frowned. His eyes were focused downwards. "I am actually not sure if I want to finish my apprenticeship," he confessed.

Both Father and Celebrían stared at him as if he were mad. "Why not?" his sister demanded.

"I love working at the forge, I honestly do! It's only that..." Findur paused, searching for the right words. "As a vocation, it seems like a lot of horseshoes and plowshares. Imladris's beauty lies in natural things, not in crafts. If only a place like Eregion still endured, that I might have the opportunity to forge something truly beautiful."

Father and Celebrían exchanged a look that Findur could not decipher. Then Father spoke. "Findur," he said with such immense seriousness that Findur immediately sobered, straightening his posture, "do you think a sword is beautiful?"

Findur raised his eyebrows at the seemingly irrelevant question. "Sometimes, yes," he said. "They are powerful symbols. But they can be terrible as well, when used for the wrong reason."

Father nodded. "Yes. But know this from a man who has seen much of war—" and with these words Findur saw a great wisdom shining in his father's gray eyes, the product of countless years of strife. It made him feel uncomfortably small. "While it is noble to rise in defending one's people," said Father, "ultimately horseshoes and plowshares are much preferable. Do you understand that?"

"Yes," he replied. "Yes, I think I do." His father's grave words perplexed him, and he could not think of any more to say in reply. They sat in silence for a few moments, and then Findur stood up.

"I must be going," he said. "Erelas and I are planning to get some field time in before dinner." It was the custom in Elrond's house that each member of the household labor in the fields as occupation allowed. A young man with only minor responsibilities, Findur was often on the roster. He hated the work, kneeling in the dirt and performing some tiring, mindless task for hours, but it was not so bad in the cool of the afternoon with a friend for conversation.

"I'll go with you," Celebrían suggested. "I'm meeting—" but she broke off in mid-sentence. "Taking a walk in the gardens. Alone," she added hurriedly. Father raised his eyebrows, while Findur tried not to smile.

"All right," Findur replied. "One moment, and I'll put my sword away."

As soon as they were outside, Findur spoke. "Elrond, I suppose," he said, a teasing grin on his face.

"It's not what you think," Celebrían insisted, blushing slightly. "But Father can be a bit paranoid, as you well know. I would rather not mention it. He'd become terribly protective if he knew—I mean, if he thought—" She shook her head and sighed, a heartfelt sound, but her next words were firm. "There is nothing more than friendship between us. Speak no more of it."

Findur let this go, although he very much doubted her assertion. "What do you think of his words to me, about the sword and war?" he asked instead.

"Father's? What do you mean?" asked Celebrían, a guarded expression on her face.

"Didn't you think it was odd? I'm no warrior, and these are times of peace. He seemed concerned about something, and I couldn't fathom what."

"He is often times serious," she replied. "It is his way." But her gaze was distant, lost somewhere among the thick foliage that lined both sides of the thoroughfare. Finally, her pale blue eyes turned back towards him.

"Know that his words were true," she said. "For I have seen war, Findur, and it was hardly a glorious event."

"Eregion?" he asked quietly.

Celebrían nodded. "I was only a child, but I will never forget it," she said. When she next spoke, it was to change the subject. "You know," she said suddenly, "Elrond asked Father again to go to Lórinand. (1) Because of—"

"Of Nenya," Findur finished softly. "Yes, I know." He frowned, because he knew well what Father's answer had been to this request. "I have long wished to see the Golden Wood. It is foolish that two Rings of Power are held in the same small valley. He could do so much more good in Lórinand."

"He and Mother spent much time there," Celebrían reminded him. "We visited it often before you were born. It would be painful for him to return now. Besides, Imladris is our home. Would you really want to leave?"

"Perhaps not," Findur admitted. "I only wish that Father hadn't had to take Nenya. That..." But he fell silent. So much for changing the subject. Though their focus had changed, the conversation had gone from unpleasant to depressing.

"That Mother hadn't left?" Celebrían asked, a strange lilt to her voice. He saw that her eyes shined with unshed tears. "She had to, Findur. She had been through so much pain. How could we ask her to stay?" She placed a sympathetic hand on Findur's shoulder. "We'll see her again. Once we are certain that the darkness is overthrown, and that there is someone else to bear Nenya. There will be a time." But Celebrían's words could not appease him. How could she be so certain that the perpetual scar that Morgoth had left on the earth would ever heal, that there would ever be another wise enough to bear a Ring of Power? But he held his tongue. If Celebrían wanted hope, no matter how fabricated, so be it.

There was another brief silence, and then they spoke of familiar, comforting things—the harvest, the marriage of one of Celebrían's friends, the song that Lindir was to perform in the Hall of Fire that night. Soon they had reached the entrance to the gardens, where Elrond was waiting with a smile, a surprising contrast to his usually stoic expression. He tried not to smile himself as Celebrían bid him goodbye and, beaming, ran to join Elrond. Only friends indeed.

When they were gone, he felt a peculiar despondency fall over him. He envied his sister, who could take grief so easily, moving from sorrow to laughter in minutes. It was if he felt anguish more sharply than others, held it with him longer, so that it constantly tore at his mind. Perhaps, after enough experience, sorrow would cease to bother him—or at least he might become accustomed to the pain.

  


It was nearly suppertime when Findur finished his work in the fields. Erelas had left earlier, and now he walked back to the house alone. As he went, a frigid wind began to howl down into the valley, whistling through the boughs of trees and shaking a few leaves prematurely to the ground. Though it was only the beginning of autumn, not yet harvest time, a cold spell was not unheard of at this time of year. Findur shivered and folded his arms across his chest, trying to remain warm as the air grew colder.

Soon, he reached the house. Upon opening the door, he was greeting with warm air scented with the familiar smell of burning wood. His entire body untensed at the welcome change in temperature. He hurried down the corridor to his family's chambers, hoping that he wasn't already late for dinner.

Luckily, his father was still there, paging through some old volume most likely borrowed from Elrond's extensive libraries. "You're back," he said without raising his head. "We'll go soon."

"Wait a moment while I change into something warmer," Findur replied, going to his room. Although it was much warmer than outside, he could still use some extra insulation.

He did not notice the letter at first, focused on rummaging through his winter chest for a tunic. It was not until he had found a woolen top and was dressing that he noticed a folded sheet lying on his writing desk. On closer inspection, he saw that it was a letter, sealed with unstamped wax. He quickly pulled on the shirt and walked to the desk. Picking up the letter, which, he noted, was written on aged, slightly crumpled parchment, he tore it open.

It was from his mother. Although he could not explain how such a letter had come here, there was no mistaking the thin, elegant handwriting that filled the page. The possibilities overwhelmed him—that she had somehow sent the letter from the West, that the impossible had come to pass, and she had come back!—but the heading read, 30 Hrívë, 3436. (2) It was a date from the Second Age, only a few years after his birth. His pulsing heart and senseless hope disintegrated, but his curiosity grew stronger. What was an old letter from his mother doing on his desk?

_Celeborn_, the letter continued, and Findur realized that he should not be reading this; this was surely some kind of mistake. Yet he found he could not set it down. At the sight of her writing, he recalled her gentle smile and musical laughter as she walked with him on summer days through the meadows of Imladris—the infinite sadness in her eyes as she bid him farewell for the last time. Words written by his mother's pen would be like words spoken from Taniquetil itself.

"I do not write in hope that this letter will reach you," the letter read, "for I know that the fighting is fierce and leaves little opportunity for such messages to be delivered. In spite of this, I am consoled, for I know that we are only separated a little while. Yet I will not lie to you. I am weary of this bitter season, my love. The days grow shorter, and the night holds little solace. The chill of winter seems unending, and I seldom can find strength to place hope in the spring. It is a grief that cannot be diminished by words on paper, though I may try.

"Findur grows so quickly. He is a precious child, my sole consolation in these fateful days. I know you will think this a contradiction, though you love him in your way."

Findur frowned. A contradiction? His father only loved him in a way? But there must be some meaning to these strange words, he reasoned, and read on.

"I understand that you fear his nature greatly. I do not blame you; I have the same fears—that the evil done unto me and perhaps inherent in him is irrevocable, that this dark-haired jewel will grow up to assume his father's role, invalidating any victory that we achieve at the present. I do not deny it: only a fool would be unafraid of the heir of the Dark Lord!"

The letter fell from Findur's hands like a leaf from a trembling branch. He stared at the ground, unable to move or even to think. Slowly, the manifold horror that resonated in his mind came together as a single thought.

_I am a monster._

Around these words, a cruel image formed, and the story of his life was rewritten. His mother had not merely been imprisoned, but had been raped during her captivity in Mordor. He was not his father's son. He had been born—for what? To continue Sauron's evil work? Then he, after all, was the reason that she had left, and they had stayed behind—how could the Valar allow such a terrible creature to pass into the West? Why had they allowed him to live at all?

A voice from the next room punctuated his tumultuous thoughts. "Come, my son! We shall be late!"

Findur started at the voice, a reminder that the rest of the world still existed. More appalling were the words. "My son," he repeated underneath his breath. He snatched up the letter and stormed into the room where Celeborn was waiting.

"Why do you call me that?" he cried, his voice breaking near the end. He hoped that his face did not reveal the anguish that he felt also.

Celeborn stared at him, agape. "Findur, what have I said?"

Findur found himself laughing, a hollow, mocking sound. "Of course. Play the concerned parent, Father. We both know the truth now. You can't bear me, and I do not blame you."

"How can you say this?" Celeborn demanded, his voice growing increasingly agitated. "If I have done anything..."

Findur shook his head and threw the letter down on the table. "Perhaps this will clarify a few things."

Celeborn picked up the letter and began to read. After a few moments, a terrible expression came over his face—horror mixed with grief, Findur thought. It was the closest he had ever seen the man to weeping.

"Then it's true," Findur said. His voice was suddenly thin and strained. He turned away from his father, towards the window, inky black with night, and leaned one hand against the windowpane. The glass was frigid, but he did not care. "So this is the grief that my mother fled," he continued. "My conception, my birth, my very existence. You should have let me die when you had the chance!"

Celeborn walked to him and put a hand on his shoulder, but again Findur moved out of reach. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see Celeborn's face, lines of grief etched across his face as if he were some aged, careworn mortal.

"I don't know where you found this. But your mother loves you, Findur," Celeborn said gently. "I love you."

"Then why did she leave?" Findur demanded. "Do not give excuses. I am not your son. I am but a tool of Sauron. I should never have been born."

"Do not say such things!" said Celeborn. "It is true; your mother suffered a great deal. You cannot blame yourself. It was very difficult for her to leave you."

"But she had to leave me behind, didn't she? It wasn't just Nenya. I can never go into the West. I will never see her again."

"At first, that was a concern," Celeborn admitted. "But you are not a monster, Findur. You are the son of Galadriel. My fears have long been allayed."

Findur's hand pressed harder against the windowpane as he replied. "How can you be so sure? Any moment, the darkness within me could awaken." He lifted his head, so that his piercing blue eyes met with Celeborn's soft gray pupils. Out of the tumult that was his thoughts, an idea awoke in him, and he realized what he must do. "I can't stay here."

Celeborn's eyes grew wide as Findur walked back to his room. Celeborn followed him. "Where, then, will you go?" he asked in a surprisingly even tone as Findur took out a satchel and began to pack.

"I don't know. But I won't remain here, pretending I'm something that I'm not. I'm a danger to everyone, can't you see that?"

"Do not do this," Celeborn pleaded, placing a hand on his arm to restrain him. Findur pulled away and continued packing. "Let us speak of this further. You are troubled; you are making a rash decision."

Findur closed the satchel, slung it over his shoulder, and strapped his sword to his side. He turned to face his father. "I am a man, am I not? Will you stop me from going?"

"No," Celeborn said quietly. "But I will ask you to reconsider. My son."

"Goodbye," Findur replied, and went swiftly out of the room, down the hallway, and out into the frigid night. Celeborn did not follow him.

  


The meadow before the house was deserted. For though it was a new moon, the stars bright and cold against the raven black sky, most of the folk of Imladris had chosen to stay within the warm house that night. Only a few strains of melody rose up from among the trees, and these were faint. For now, he could count on being alone.

A memory came to him now, and for a few moments, the meadow was warm and sunlit, and he a little boy clutching his mother's hand. She was wearing a wreath of flowers that he had woven for her earlier in the day. They dashed through the tall grass and wildflowers. A horn rang out in the distance. Men leading horses came towards them—warriors returning victorious from battle. When they were near, all the men hailed them, but one stopped, eyes ancient and grey. The eyes shone with love. The man and his mother embraced. The sun flooded down on them, their hair, their faces. "Findur," Mother said, "this is your father."

Gradually, the recollection faded. Findur again found himself in the middle of the field, unmoving. He realized that warm tears were streaming down his face, filling his mouth with a salty taste. Soon his sobbing was audible, heartfelt groans that left him small and quivering in the darkness.

He wished he could die.

Yet as soon as the thought came to him, he knew that he could not kill himself. It was not a matter of cowardice, or even hope for the future. He only knew that, beyond all reason, he did not want to end his life.

Besides, what relief would death bring? The Valar would not judge him kindly. Perhaps he would be damned to Mandos for all time like Fëanor, or maybe the Valar would concoct an even more terrible punishment. No, rather he would flee Imladris. He would go away somewhere, and live alone, or at least under an alias. Maybe he would go to Khazad-dûm, where he might learn the crafts of the Dwarves. Only this: he would not become powerful or well-known, or even especially talented. He would rather die than be a pawn in Sauron's plans.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps running towards him. "Findur!" a voice called.

Findur looked up and saw Celebrían. She was wearing an oversized cloak, perhaps Elrond's. Her eyes were large and watery, and her bottom lip was trembling. "What's wrong with you?" she demanded, her voice high-pitched and slightly muffled by the cumbersome cloak. "Father said you two had an argument and that you ran out, and he wouldn't tell me why." She paused, and her frown became more pronounced. "You've been crying."

"Leave me," he replied wearily. "I think you know what Celeborn and I fought about."

"Celeborn—" Celebrían began, but she peered closely at him, and realization flickered over her face. "Oh, Findur," she said gently.

"You pity me," he replied. "And you fear me. Sister, just go."

Celebrían's face grew stern. "You do not know me very well if you think I either pity or fear you," she replied. "Please, let us speak of this. I don't know how you found out, and I don't pretend to understand how you must feel, but I love you. We all do."

Findur did not reply. A part of him wanted to accept her offer, to go back to the warm house, to apologize to everyone and pretend none of this had happened. But this was impossible. There was no use in pretending—it could never be the same again.

"I'm sorry," he said, turned on his heel, and ran past the border of the meadow in the woods. He thought that he heard Celebrían running after him, but eventually the sound faded and he was alone in the forest.

At first, the climb was easy, for there was little incline and the trees formed wide avenues. However, as time passed and the ascent grew steeper, the foliage was denser, and Findur was hard-pressed to find a path. Several times, he found himself unable to climb further and was forced to turn back and choose a new course.

Twilight shifted to night, and Findur felt his emotions settling. His breath and pulse slowed down in accordance. At the same time, his senses grew keener, and his mind became more alert. The shadows of the forest came alive with sight and sound: animals scurrying through the foliage, a flitter of black wings against the starlit sky, the sound of wind through the leaves like a mother hushing her child to sleep. The stars had become a pantheon of lights in the black sky. He looked up at them as he walked. He had learned all of the constellations when he was young, and silently named them now—Menelvagor, Soronúmë, Anarríma, Remirrath, the Valacirca. But what comfort might the stars of Elbereth bring to the son of Sauron? Could even the brightest jewel pierce the shadow that was his birthright? He sighed and turned his eyes back towards the ground. The trees were thinning out again, he realized. He was almost there.

It was with both relief and sorrow that, some minutes later, he reached the end of the woods and found himself amidst a sloping green plain, mountains looming in the distance. For the first time in his life, he had left Imladris.

* * *

opening quote:  
For now the Kindler, Varda, the Queen of the Stars,   
from Mount Everwhite has uplifted her hands like clouds,   
and all paths are drowned deep in shadow   
(_The Fellowship of the Ring_, "Farewell to Lórien") 

1. Lórinand - an older name of Lórien

2. 30 Hrívë - This is the equivalent of December 20 in our modern calendar.


	6. Lady of the Lake

**Disclaimer**: Tolkien's. Not mine.  
**Timeframe:** T.A. 46  
** Rating (this chapter):** PG.

**Shadow Child  
Chapter VI: Lady of the Lake**

Findur was still uncertain why he had not gone to Khazad-dûm. At the present, studying the crafts of the Dwarves sounded like an excellent alternative to being herded through the woods by four angry-looking elves brandishing spears.

He had admittedly embarrassed the said elves, and perhaps deserved such treatment, having spied them out when they were still hiding in the trees, waiting for unsuspecting strangers to come along so that they could jump out and demand the unfortunate person's business. Instead of acting out this scenario, Findur asked what _they_ were doing and assured them that they need not point their bows at him. The archers were not amused. Now, they were taking him to their superior for questioning. This behavior seemed to Findur to be indicative of chronic xenophobia. He feared that, even if he were given permission to pass through the forest, he would not be very welcome.

Where else was he supposed to go? As he had neared Khazad-dûm, a wave of misgiving had fallen over him, as if some darkness slumbered in the mines' shadowy depths, waiting for him. It was inexplicable, but after his experiences of the past months, even the strangest circumstances seemed rational. He decided instead to take the Redhorn Pass over the Misty Mountains, only stopping briefly at a Dwarven outpost north of Khazad-dûm to restock on food and water.

Once he came to the end of the Pass, a choice was laid upon him—where to go from there? He did not wish to dwell among mortals in Gondor, or to live in Belfalas by the Sea, where so many elves longed for Valinor but were not yet willing to bid Middle-earth goodbye. As for Lórinand, that fair realm that his mother had so loved, he did not find himself fit to even approach its borders. That left one land where an elf might be welcome - the realm of Thranduil in Greenwood the Great.

_It sounded like a good idea at the time!_ he thought, giving a rueful sigh. One of the elves threw him an annoyed look.

A few minutes later, they came to a clearing in the wood where a long, low building stood. "Here is our outpost," one of the elves announced. "I will confer with my captain. He will judge whether you may continue on through these woods."

Thus followed a long silence punctuated by soft speech coming from within. Findur's grasp on the Silvan tongue was not so good that he could easily understand their low whispers. Instead, he used the time to study the forest around him. Greenwood was a dense forest, but in winter, all but the evergreens were bare, letting much light stream down to the forest floor. A few birds sang merrily in the trees above, and a sleepy-looking squirrel scurried through the underbrush. Although it was very different from Imladris, Findur felt at home nonetheless.

All this time, the remaining elves eyed him suspiciously. Dark-haired and gray-eyed, they were clad in simple green and brown. Findur decided he could blend in well here, even with his blue eyes and strange accent, provided that the common folk were slightly more accepting than the archers of their defense perimeter.

Presently, the elf came out of the building. "My captain would like to speak with you," he said, and he led Findur inside.

Findur was brought into a long, narrow room. Rows of tables and benches stood on either end of the room, and in the center a fire blazed, the heat of which was a welcome change. By the fire stood a tall elf, presumably the captain. Unlike the others, his hair was golden, but his eyes were keen gray. His expression was considerably more jovial than those of Findur's stern-faced captors.

"You may return to your post, Halach," he told the other elf. Halach bowed slightly and retreated from the room. Then he turned to Findur. "I am Lórimir, prince of Greenwood and captain of the defense of these woods," he said in greeting, using the Sindarin tongue. "State your name and your business in Greenwood." 

Findur bowed in acknowledgment. "I am Morfindel, a traveler," he said. (1) "I only ask leave to pass through this land and, if I might, find an isolated spot to call my home, making no trouble for you or your people."

Lórimir frowned. "Traveler though you may be, we elves cannot live on sunlight like trees, nor do we dwell in burrows like foxes. How do you plan to provide for yourself? The King does not welcome beggars."

Findur had given little thought to his future at all, but he answered readily. "I know much of agriculture and hunting," he replied, "and can build a shelter for myself in need. All I ask is I the privilege to live within the borders of this land. The rest, I will do for myself."

Lórimir nodded and seemed satisfied, but the thoughtful glint in his eyes told Findur that he had more on his mind. "Halach, the elf who led you in here, tells me your arrival was quite the distinguished one," he went on. "The guards of Greenwood are known for their secrecy, and yet you perceived them."

Findur silently chided himself for being so discourteous. "I have keen senses," he replied abashedly. "I'm sorry if I have offended anyone."

"No harm was done, except perhaps to Halach's ego," Lórimir said with a laugh. "Only be wary who you intrude on, Morfindel. Strangers are too often unwelcome in Greenwood. Many troubles have befallen us in recent years, and it is easy to blame outsiders." He paused reflectively. "You are of Sindarin heritage, are you not? Your accent is of that people."

Findur felt his heartbeat quicken. "That is a question with a complicated answer," he replied softly. It was not a lie. All of his life, he had considered himself a Sindar, for Celeborn was Sindarin, and his mother's kin were their brethren. Now his genealogy was a blur, just like everything else from his past.

"I will take your word for it," said Lórimir, although he obviously did not know what to make of Findur's reply. "I only asked because I am of Sindarin blood."

Findur looked at Lórimir in surprise. "Your hair," he realized. The golden hair was certainly not inherited from Silvan parents.

Lórimir nodded. "My forefathers came here to escape the troubles in the west of Middle-earth and adopt a simpler way of life. They were welcomed by the Silvan people, for we were of the same people during the Great Journey, and though much has passed since them, we have never forgotten that." Findur was not sure if Lórimir was speaking from a Sindarin or a Silvan point of view. "Now we live in peace." 

"I suppose we have something in common," Findur replied. "I too seek peace."

  


Not only did Lórimir give Findur leave to stay in Greenwood, but he also invited Findur to eat with them that evening and gave him supplies for the days to come. Findur was grateful—not only were the meal and supplies a welcome gesture, but it was good to speak with one of his own people. Some of the lands he had passed through had been populated by humans, others travelled by dwarves, many altogether empty. Loath as he was to admit it, Findur was homesick, and the company of other elves assuaged this somewhat.

But he resolved to leave quickly once he finished dining in the long hall. While Lórimir was friendly and most of the others were pleasant or simply ignored him, two or three were openly hostile, staring at him as he passed. Lórimir rebuked these, but Findur knew that the grudge they held against the Noldor and Sindar was not without cause. He should not stay and aggravate them further. Whither he would go, he knew not.

Four days later, Findur was still walking the old path through Greenwood. He was running on instinct now, giving little thought to either surroundings or destination. He had the foolish idea that, when he found the right place to halt, he would know. It was admittedly not a very good plan, but he could not bring himself to make any definite decisions about his destination.

With a tired sigh, he sat down against a tree beside the path, taking off his pack and placing it beside him on the ground. The sun was beginning to set, and he had not stopped to rest since that morning. This was a good place to halt. There was plenty of wood in the forest for a fire, and the sound of running water came from up ahead, a rarity in this forest. He took his canteen from his pack and went to fill it.

The river that he discovered flowed swiftly across his path, but it was shallow and not very wide: easily fordable, he should think. Nevertheless, someone had gone to the trouble of constructing a bridge over it. The water had a dark hue to it, but Findur tasted a little of it and found it fresh and sweet. He eagerly drank more and began to fill up his water flask.

Suddenly, he heard a rustle in the nearby foliage that sounded suspiciously like footsteps. "Stop!" a clear voice called.

Findur quickly stood, nearly dropping his flask into the river in the process. "Who's there?" he asked, his hand reaching for his sword hilt.

A woman hurried out of the woods just beyond the bridge. She held an empty basket, and at the moment was regarding Findur as if he possessed an extraneous eye.

"I am Liniel." Though her cry had been in the Silvan tongue, she spoke now in Sindarin, her words accented but by no means difficult to understand. "Rather may I ask who you are, stranger, who drinks from that river, and yet remains wakeful?"

Findur looked down in surprise at the river in question. "I'm afraid I don't understand your words. The water seems ordinary to me."

Liniel raised her eyebrows. "You are obviously no ordinary man. Whoever drinks of this water falls into a deep sleep for days, even weeks. When they wake, much of their memory is cloaked in shadow. Never have I heard of one who has escaped the river's enchantment—not until you, that is."

"I do not know what to say," said Findur, quite taken aback. He found himself glancing at the stream repeatedly, as if he expected some product of the dread curse to materialize in the water. "My name is—is Morfindel. I am only a traveler through this land."

"And a weary one, I can see," Liniel said with an amused expression, eyeing his worn cloak and perspiring forehead. "My house is just past this bend." She motioned to the road ahead of them. "I was on my way to gather some winter herbs, but it is a task that can wait. Perhaps a warm meal would be welcome after your travelling."

Findur shook his head. "Your offer is kind," he said, "but thank you, I must be going." Indeed, he would not mind eating something substantial in the company of Lady Liniel, but stopping would mean one more day until he reached... wherever it was that he was going.

"Please," Liniel pressed. "I would be honored by hosting such noble company, as you have obviously demonstrated yourself to be. The road will be there tomorrow." Her gray eyes sparkled, and Findur found himself captivated by them.

"It would be a pleasant change," he admitted. "Thank you for your kindness. One moment, and I'll fetch my pack."

"I am glad," Liniel replied, and smiled.

  


Liniel's house was small but welcoming, a cottage nested among so many trees that it was difficult to judge where the house ended and the forest began. Nearby, a branch of the river flowed noisily into a blue-gray mere, bordered by the winter-wrought remnants of flowers and shrubs, a garden of sorts that stretched on behind the cottage. 

"It's modest, I know," Liniel said as she led him to the house, "but it is sufficient for my own needs. It is a shame that you cannot see it in springtime. The woods are beautiful then."

"It is lovely even now," Findur assured. He was smiling and he was not sure why. Indeed, a wave of contentment had washed over him upon coming to the house, a welcome sentiment after so many months of uncertainty and despair. He could not name the source of this sudden cheer; it was something fundamental, rooted in the very essence of the place.

"Liniel—that is 'Lady of the Mere'," he noted. "Were you named after this place?"

Liniel's mouth twisted into a peculiar frown. "No," she said softly, "I was named after another mere. But that was long ago." She quickened her pace and had come to the door before Findur could make any reply.

The inside of Liniel's house was much more ornate than the exterior. All the furnishings were expertly crafted, all polished woods and richly colored fabric. There was a lit fireplace in nearly every room, and with the scent of burning wood mingled an unseen perfume, a fragrance like summer roses. Bottles of colored glass containing mysterious liquids sat upon windowsills, and the walls were hung with paintings, illustrated in a strange style and depicting the characters and events of a history that Findur did not know. Only one was familiar, seemingly incongruent with the rest: a landscape of Alqualondë after the First Kinslaying, blood and jewels mingling on the white sands, ships in flame on the opposite shore.

  


He nearly laughed aloud when he looked into the mirror that hung over the washing basin. His face was smeared with sweat and grime, and his clothing stained and frayed. No wonder Liniel had commented on his weariness; he certainly looked the part of a travel-worn wanderer. He washed his face and hands, but only so much could be done with soap and water. _If only Celebrían could see me now,_ he thought. The well-groomed youth of Imladris and the face that he saw now in the mirror seemed like two different people. It was more than dirt on a face—the eyes that glared back in the mirror were tired, even apathetic. It was the look of a man who had deemed the world to be a cold, wretched place. The look of a man.

  


Dinner was indescribable after so many months of traveling food. Occasionally, he had managed to procure a warm meal, like his dinner with Lórimir and his people, but none of them had been like this, a simple home-cooked affair.

"Don't thank me!" Liniel said when Findur complimented the food. "It's Arandulë who does all of the cooking. I don't think I could manage without her." Findur recalled the flitter of dark hair and soft eyes that had brought in their food. He had been barely conscious of her presence. "She's very quiet," he commented.

Liniel nodded, a sad, wistful gleam in her eyes. "She tends to be on the quieter side. She was still young when she lost her parents in the war, and I'm not sure that she's ever quite recovered from the grief. We have been friends since she was a child, and I thought it best that she come do some housework for me rather than be alone. She lives in the nearby village, of course. It wouldn't do her any good to be isolated here."

Findur tried to word his next question as politely as he could. "And yet you, my lady, are isolated here?"

"That is another matter," Liniel replied brusquely, and looked away. Findur tried to busy himself during the awkward silence that followed by pushing the remainder of his vegetables in circles about his plate. Finally, Liniel broke the silence. "I am not very popular with people here, he might say," she said matter-of-factly.

Findur looked up at Liniel in surprise. "Why not?" He could not imagine how anyone could dislike this clever, kind woman.

Again, Liniel looked away, folding and unfolding her hands nervously. She finally settled on gripping the edges of her plate with her fingertips. "Forgive me for my reluctance," she said. "It is not a tale that I would tell willingly, and yet..." She lifted her head to meet Findur's gaze. "And yet I must. "

"You don't have to—" Findur began, but Liniel interrupted him.

"You don't understand," she said. "I do." Findur stared. "What on earth is it?"

Liniel sighed. "I first came here," she began, "with my mother when the Orc raids began, at the beginning of the war. Our old home was on the edge of the woods; it was too open to attack. My father was not with us; he was fighting under King Oropher.

"It was, of course, not long before news came back of the devastation in the East. It was worst for the Silvan people: only a third of us returned from the fighting in the end. My mother feared for my father's survival. She was desperate for news of him, and of the war's end. The few messengers who returned to us could not report individual casualties, only numbers and battles. Always were we waiting.

"And so my mother devised a working of enchantment: a draft of foreknowledge. Clumsy at best, perhaps, and only a great deal of water could hold it. Yet she succeeded: the river you drank from was thus enchanted.

"But soon enough neighboring people learned of all this. They did not know us, and did not understand. They were afraid, and said that such knowledge was dangerous, and too often deceiving. They were too weak to undo the enchantment, and so they cursed the river, and now it can not be drunken from safely."

"I'm not sure I entirely blame them," said Findur. "If it were used unwisely—"

"But now it's even more dangerous than it was in the beginning!" Liniel exclaimed. "Undrinkable _and_ enchanted! Now they distrust me, for my mother taught me much of her art. So I came to live here, beside the river itself, after the war." She frowned. "And now I see that they were right, at least in part. Somehow, the curse did not hold upon you. Perhaps it is fading, but I doubt it... Who knows how the water will affect you."

Findur tried to quell any anxiety that he felt. "I've never had a prophetic vision before," he said. "It might be interesting."

Liniel did not laugh. "Thank you for understanding," she said softly.

The rest of dinner passed in pleasant conversation, and although Liniel spoke with a confident tone, her eyes shining brightly, something about her seemed soft, almost vulnerable. Only much later did Findur understand why this was—that night, Liniel had revealed to him her inmost self, and this was a rare occurrence indeed.

  


When they finished eating, Liniel left, saying that she had business to attend to, and that she would be back shortly. Findur briefly wondered who the self-proclaimed hermit could possibly be going to see, but he did not dwell on it. After all, it was none of his business.

In the kitchen, he could hear Arandulë cleaning, and it occurred to him that he might assist her, to show his gratitude for the meal. However, as soon as he thought of it, there were footsteps and the clatter of the door. She had finished and was going home

The room that Liniel had left him in was small and warm; a lively fire blazed in the grate. Unfortunately, it did not hold much in the way of entertainment. A bookcase overflowing with bound volumes stood in one corner, but Findur had never been a very enthusiastic reader, unwilling to spend his free time reading dry treatises full of archaic knowledge and histories of days long past.

Eventually, having nothing else to do, he pulled the parchment letter out of his pocket. It had become a compulsion of his to read his mother's letter frequently, and arguably a form of self-punishment as well. Something told him that, if he reread it enough times, he would find answers to all of the questions that were gnawing at him: how the letter might have come to be in his room, how his mother could possibly have loved him, in spite of all that she had suffered. Such generosity was not, he was sure, a quality that he had inherited.

Some minutes passed, and Liniel returned. "Hello," she greeted amiably as she walked into the room. "What are you reading?"

"Nothing," Findur said as he hurriedly refolded the letter and put it into his pocket. He recognized the ridiculousness of the answer and amended, "Well, just a letter."

"Oh." Liniel sat in the chair next to him. "From anyone important?"

"Not really," he replied in a surprisingly even voice. How easy it was to tell these untruths, to pretend that her question did not rend his heart. After all, his entire life had been a lie. Why should he stop now?

  


Liniel and Findur spoke together for many hours that night. Findur made a conscious effort to avoid any talk of himself or his past, changing the subject whenever it approached those delicate subjects. Liniel apparently recognized this, and their conversation veered towards more universal topics, Liniel doing most of the talking. Findur was content to listen to her melodious voice, the air around him warmed by the blazing fire. It seemed an eternity since he had been this comfortable.

As she spoke, Findur's attention gradually drifted to the fire. The flickering orange flames grew and shrunk from moment to moment, as if a living, breathing organism. Gradually, Liniel's voice faded, and the room around him fell away, so that his vision was dominated by the roaring fire, and all he could hear was the popping and hissing of burning wood.

Then two brilliant eyes, burning with a fire of their own, ardent and holy and terrible. Liniel's eyes, a Vala's eyes, his mother's eyes.

"You shall be great, Findur." The voice was ancient and commanding, and it seemed to emanate from all directions. "Your hands will shape mountains, or destroy them. This is your destiny. Do not be afraid to embrace that which is rightfully yours.

Then the fire returned, but it was not in the fireplace this time. Instead, he saw a valley wreathed in flames. Imladris was burning.

Mixed with his horror was an inexplicable curiosity; he was drawn to the fire. It possessed a strange beauty, like the tongues of flame in the forge. One was an agent of destruction, the other a tool of creation, but there was an essential similarity. There was still the fire.

But with that thought, a cold shadow passed over his heart—not the shadow of night, for the night could be good, nor a shadow of might, for such strength could be a vehicle for noble deeds. No, this was shadow at its purest, unlight, masking all things in its oppressive darkness. Deeds were twisted, words went crooked. It entered his bones, and brought the flame with it, so that the fire consumed him, and he was the fire.

He found himself weeping. The tears were cool and salty and _wet_ in a way that seemed foreign. They dripped off his face and fell down to the valley below, extinguishing the inferno. Soon there was only ash.

Moments passed. A quiet melody began to rise up from the ashes, slowly but steadily increasing in volume and fullness. It was a music like Findur had never heard before, sweet like singing but rich like a stringed instrument, the strains of a melody so ancient that few upon the earth had ever heard it, the original Great Music. But the ashes were still there, coating the barren valley like a smooth gray blanket. So would it remain for a long time

"Do not believe it!" Another voice—Liniel's voice. It was full and confident, like a blessing. "The shadow is gone. Your fate is your own. Do not be afraid of these ignorant lies." Liniel embraced him and kissed his mouth. "My love." Her eyes were like smoky jewels.

You will build a fortress among the ruins. A store against the decay of our people.

You are not your father's son. Fear not.

For we are fading. I am dying. Only you, Morfindel

Morfindel

Morfindel

"Morfindel!"

And once again, Findur was sitting in a chair by the fireplace.

Liniel was kneeling beside him, watching him anxiously. "How are you feeling?"

Findur blinked, trying to reorient himself to his surroundings. "Confused," he told her for lack of a better adjective. "What happened?"

"You fell into a kind of trance for a some minutes. I do apologize. I—"  
"It wasn't your fault. I'm fine. Just disoriented." The vision of Imladris burning returned to his mind. "Is everything that I've seen going to take place?"

"All that you have seen holds a certain truth, but none of it is inevitable," Liniel replied. "Nor is everything to be taken literally." She gave him a sudden, inquisitive glance. "It is said that the complexity of such visions depends in part on the beholder himself—his curiosity, his willingness to see. You might keep that in mind. But just a moment." Liniel stood up and exited the room, leaving Findur alone with his thoughts.

It was a relief to know that Imladris was not doomed to burst into flames, seemingly at his own hand—but the possibility was there, and that was enough to trouble him. That part of the vision, he was sure, had been literal. He could still see the trees aflame, Elrond's house crumbling in smoke.

He was not certain _what_ to make of Liniel's kiss.

Liniel returned with a steaming cup filled with a dark liquid. "Drink this." As she handed the cup to Findur, their hands touched briefly. Liniel's eyes grew suddenly wide. "Morfindel," she said, "your skin... is it always so warm?"

"Yes, yes, don't worry, since I was a child," Findur replied hurriedly. He tried not to think about the origin of the blood that ran through his veins, marking him thus.

"All right," Liniel replied, making no attempt to hide her perplexity. "It's an unusual trait... but I can see that you don't want to speak of it." She sat beside him and motioned to the cup that Findur was cradling in his hands. "You're not thirsty?"

Findur eyed the mysterious brew suspiciously.

"It's only tea," Liniel said with a laugh. "I find that it helps me to relax."

"All right," said Findur, and took a long sip of it. It had a pleasant, slightly spicy flavor. "Thank you," he said. "It's very good." Impulsively, he looked up at Liniel, studying her features. She had a long, elegant figure and a graceful poise, back straight and head held high. In some people, such noble features would convey distance, but Liniel had a strange intimacy about her, in the way her dark hair fell about her shoulders, in her red lips curved in a playful smile, and most of all in her sparkling, intent gray eyes. He stared until she gave him a questioning look in return. "What is it?" she asked with a laugh like silver bells.

He stifled a sudden urge to tell her that she was beautiful, and instead threw out another question that had been present in his thoughts. "What became of your parents?" _Stupid thing to say_, he realized. Spoken aloud, the words took on an unforeseen rudeness. "You don't have to answer," he added hurriedly. "It's none of my business." 

"No, no, that's fine," Liniel replied. "I can offer no real answer, though. No definite news came of my father, even at the war's end. My mother left to search for him. I have not seen either of them since. I assume them to be dead."

Findur did not know what to say. After a moment's silence, Liniel stood up abruptly, murmured something about putting the kettle away, and left the room.

  


"You won't go today, will you?" Liniel asked the next morning as Findur readied to leave. She had appeared suddenly in the hallway where he stood, about to sling his pack over his shoulder.

Findur looked at her in surprise. "Well, yes, I was planning to. Why?"

"After all that you've been through..." Liniel gave him a solemn, wide-eyed look, but her eyes were twinkling, and her mouth was curling up at the corners. "Honestly," she said, her voice infused with a deliberate intentness, "you should rest. I do not know what you saw in your vision, but you seem to be troubled by it. You did not eat very much at breakfast."

"I wasn't hungry," Findur countered, but he knew that her words were true. In the hours since the vision, his thoughts had been constantly plagued with the images of fire, the burning eyes, and the voices that tore at his resolve and his spirit. "I will stay," he acquiesced, "if you insist. Yet you have already done so much for me..."

"You will stay," said Liniel, and watched as he set his pack on the ground.

  


Liniel was a wonderful storyteller, her voice eloquent and clear, her words chosen carefully. That night, she told Findur story after story, and he in turn related a few. One that he remembered for a long time after was the tale of the Two Kings, a Silvan history he had never heard before. 

"Long ago," she began, "there was an elven prince named Delmeth. When Delmeth was of age, his father arranged for him to be wed to a maiden of that land, Emelien. Emelien was beautiful, with dark hair and bright eyes, and she had a kind heart towards all. But she did not wish to marry Delmeth, who loved politics and statutes, while Emelien wanted nothing more than to dance and sing among the trees.

"Yet they were married in spite of this?" Findur asked.

"Yes," Liniel confirmed. "They were married. It was a troubled time, and the future seemed dark. Delmeth feared for his kingdom's survival, and Emelien for the security of her future. Both put aside their reservations, and learned to care for the other. Yet there would always be a distance between them, a silence.

Thus Emelien came to live in the royal mansions. Here her life lacked joy, and her hours were spent tediously. She became despondent, away from loved ones and the wilderness that she loved. She remedied the problem by traveling often, and rarely was seen by her husband's side.

"There was a man of that house called Malgalad. (2) Malgalad was a gentle-hearted man and a courageous one, a powerful warrior. He was a Sinda from Beleriand, and like Emelien, he had dwelt for many years in the deep forest and loved life among the trees more than the comforts of the royal household. The two came to know each other well, sharing their memories of their lives before they had come to the palace. Malgalad saw Emelien's unhappiness, and he spoke to Delmeth of it, being a friend of the prince. But Delmeth would not heed his friend's words, for he was too proud to admit that his marriage to Emelien had been an error, and he did not wish to anger his father.

"The friendship of Malgalad and Emelien continued and deepened, and soon Emelien loved Malgalad, and he her. And in that dark hour, she renounced her marriage to Delmeth and took Malgalad into her arms." 

"But she was married!" cried Findur. "Only mortals would be so unfaithful, to take the vows of marriage that lightly. My people—"

"Your people?" Liniel gave him a questioning look, and Findur fell silent. He had made a point of concealing his identity from Liniel, and she was well aware of his silence on the matter. "You may not know this tale," Liniel continued, "but surely you have heard of Finwë, High King of the Noldor, who took two wives?"

"Míriel was dead when Finwë and Indis were married,"

"Whatever dead means in Aman," said Liniel. "Míriel had to agree to stay in Mandos as long as Finwë lived. Certainly Finwë was less faithful than Emelien, who gave her heart to only one man, Malgalad. But let me continue.

"Emelien could hardly conceal her infidelity to Delmeth—her crime was written in her face. He was, of course, aghast, that both his wife and friend could so betray him. Even more outraged was Delmeth's father. There was no punishment for Emelien, for even a Silvan king—" and here she gave Findur a meaningful look, "held marriage as a precious, unbreakable thing; he would not destroy what remained of his son's marriage by separating the two. But he condemned Malgalad as a traitor and exiled him. Emelien was devastated. In the months that followed, she became quiet and withdrawn, as if ill.

"That same year, there was a battle with the orcs that still remained in the Misty Mountains. Many warriors were killed, but Delmeth and his father were captured and tortured, their way of exacting revenge for earlier battles and ridiculing the land. The survivors feared to attempt a rescue with their small numbers, but when Malgalad heard the news, he went to rescue them himself, for he held no grudge against either and did not wish to see them die. The king was killed before he arrived, but Delmeth was rescued, rescued by the man who, for a time, had been his greatest enemy.

"However, their return was sorrowful. They learned that Emelien had conceived a child in the days prior to Malgalad's exile, and that in the time Delmeth had been gone, she had borne a son, the son of Malgalad. Soon after, she had passed away, too weary and conflicted to live on. Both Delmeth and Malgalad mourned, Delmeth blaming himself for Emelien's death. He welcomed Malgalad back into the land and renounced the conflict between them. After that, a strong friendship was renewed between the two; they became inseparable, forever contrite for the pain they had caused each other, and yet each forever willing to forgive. Later, when Delmeth fell defending the land, it was not some distant cousin or ambitious advisor who inherited the throne, but his beloved friend.

"It was in this way that Amdír Malgalad became king of Lórinand, and his son Amroth after him."

"Amdír!" Findur exclaimed, looking at Liniel incredulously. "But... Amdír was an honorable man!" 

"He was," Liniel said with a nod and a smile, and she would say no more of the subject.

  


Liniel managed to detain him morning after morning, until he had been there nearly a fortnight. She was, after all, a difficult person with which to argue, especially as Findur had no great desire to leave. Those were wonderful days. Liniel and he took many walks together by the gray mere or in the woods. Sometimes they visited the neighboring village, whose people, despite their ambivalence toward Liniel and her strange guest, were respectful and occasionally quite welcoming.

Best of all were the nights spent talking with Liniel and listening to her countless tales. He told a few in return, most of them better known than Liniel's Silvan stories. One that she especially liked was a rendition of the tale of Beren and Lúthien, augmented with extra elements that his mother had related to him, having been an observer of much of the story as it was unfolding. He greatly expanded Finrod Felagund's heroic death, feeling a certain pride in the exploits of his illustrious uncle, an elf who had died to save a mortal's life. That was no small sacrifice.

Thirteen days passed swiftly. The fourteenth morning dawned, chill but brilliant. Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating Liniel's face and hair as they ate breakfast together. He could not help but think how lovely she looked then, lit up as if she were Arien herself, bathed in in the radiance of the last fruit of Laurelin.

After they finished eating, Liniel walked to the window that looked out to the garden, placing one small hand against the glass. Though her face still shone, her dark hair seemed a stark contrast to her pale skin, as if she were one of the drooping bushes in the garden, dark, leafless branches coated with a silvery frost. Findur got up and stood beside her. He watched her as she stood motionless, watching the sleeping garden, enthralled by some hidden quality that Findur could not imagine. He remembered what she had said about the garden in spring, and wondered if she now recalled its vernal beauty, when the broken shrubs were green-leafed and the mere alive with living creatures, a cool breeze passing over its waters. It was a shame that he would never be able to see it.

"I must go today," he told her in a quiet, almost hesitant voice. Yet he meant it. He had remained here long enough. Now it was time to move on, to figure out what to do with himself for the rest of his days.

Liniel looked up. She looked at him through slits of eyes, a million questions seeming to flicker through her pupils. "I thought maybe..." she began, but she turned away and back towards the window, an unmoving statue once more. It worried him to see her so silent, so submissive. "What is it?" he asked.

She took a deep breath, and looked at him with a suddenly earnest expression. "I am lonely, Morfindel. I have been lonely for a long time." She took Findur's warm, tanned hand between her small, cool white palms. "I thought... thought that you might stay." Her eyes flickered uneasily between Findur and the garden.

The meaning of her words were clear to Findur, and he was not sure what to say. _I want to stay_, he realized. _I could spend eternity with this woman._ But surely he did not have the right to even consider it.

"I am sorry... but I must go," he told her. "You know I cannot say much of myself. Only know this—that every day that I stay, you may be in danger." He shook his head. How could he have been so selfish, such a fool? "I should not have come at all."

Liniel gave him a strange look, her face suddenly blanched. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"

"I can't—I must go. Thank you for everything." He hurried out of the room, trying to push down the lump that had formed in his throat. The agony of leaving, always leaving.

There was a cruel silence as stood by the door, putting on his cloak and heaving his bag over his shoulder. He wanted to wait for her so that they might properly say goodbye, but she had not moved from the window, and he could not bring himself to go back to the room. What would he say to her? How could he justify his actions without telling her who he was? It would be easier to simply depart.

Just as he was opening the door, Liniel rushed into the room. She said nothing, only walked up to him and kissed him lightly. A tremble ran through his body, and he knew that he could not refuse. For now Liniel was smiling at him, and her eyes, her eyes were like gray jewels...

"I'm not afraid," she told him. "Please, stay—if you will have me."

"Then—you love me?"

Liniel hesitated. "Ah, Morfindel," she said with a shaky laugh. "You have uncovered my weakness. Confident to the point of arrogance I may be in all else... but this is a different matter. But yes. I love you." She laughed again. "You must think me an idiot, confessing all this after having known you for so short a time."

"No, no," Findur interjected. "I—I understand. I feel the same way." He embraced her, closed his eyes. "I don't deserve you. I can't begin to deserve you."

"Don't be stupid," said Liniel.

And it was that very day that Findur and Liniel were wed. No ceremony was necessary, save for an exchange of blessings, nor could one easily be arranged, without family to witness it. While such a marriage was not common in times of peace, its significance would not be diminished.

And yet Findur felt a sudden sorrow as, clasping Liniel's hands in his, he pronounced the name of Ilúvatar, calling upon him to consecrate the marriage. _Though I be the son of your enemy,_ he added silently, _bless our new life together. For Liniel's sake, if not for my own._

  


Soon, the people of the nearby village heard of Liniel's marriage, and they spoke unfavorably of the arrangement, to have married a wanderer and stranger so soon, and without the least announcement. So Arandulë related with flushed face. But Liniel told Findur to pay no heed. "The talk will not go on forever," she assured him. "The people of Greenwood do not gossip indiscriminately." Soon, the talk did indeed come to an end, and Findur became accustomed to his life with Liniel. They dwelled in love, their life by the mere serene and unchanging.

That spring, at Liniel's urging, Findur built a forge by the river in the spring. Smiths were rare in the forest of Greenwood, and therefore Findur was well-received, a local substitute to the cost and trouble of trading with outsiders for such goods. As his expertise grew, so did his fame, until he was renowned throughout the Wood for his skill.

And so Findur and Liniel lived together in peace, for a very long time.

* * *

1. Morfindel - a clever rewording of Findur's name: "dark tress" rather than "dark hair" (although the name can also be rendered "dark skilled one".)

2. Malgalad - in one of Tolkien's outdated writings, this is the name of the king of Lórien before Amroth. So I thought it was a reasonable alias for Amdír.

General Notes

Arandulë - this name was my silly attempt to make up a Silvan language name. I thought at the time that Silvan might retain more Quenyan characteristics than Sindarin. Why I thought this, I am not entirely sure. Why Arandulë has a Silvan name when most of my other Silvan characters have Sindarin names, I am even less sure. Something to do with her family's geographic origins and social status, perhaps. A quote from Tolkien concerning the name Eöl, which has no etymological meaning, is somewhat reassuring: "It isn't really absolutely necessary that names should be significant." ;)


	7. Shadow of the Past

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien owns it. I don't.  
**Timeframe:** T.A. 210  
**Rating (this chapter):** PG-13 for violence.

**Shadow Child  
Chapter VII: Shadow of the Past **

Most of the time, he could forget. He could put the past behind him and be Morfindel, husband of Liniel, blacksmith of Greenwood. He was, after all, an ordinary man: tall, dark-haired, well-built, possessing a serious but pleasant demeanor. True, his eyes were a bright shade of blue, deep and penetrating with tinges of sorrow. True, even now the people of Greenwood murmured of the mystery shrouding his past, and, in some people's eyes, he was still a stranger, however much they appreciated his skill. He became accustomed to these truths, and was content with his life in Thranduil's realm. Yet he could not forget his life before Greenwood indefinitely.

It was in the simplest things that he rediscovered his past: the quality of noonday light streaming through the summer foliage—the sweet fragrance of flowers perfuming the air—a haunting melody rising up from the nearby village. At these, his heart would flood with memories, and he would again feel the burning agony of having all that he knew demolished in a single moment, would see the glinting stars glaring down upon him as he fled from Imladris. He would think of the people he had known, of Celebrían and Lord Elrond and his mother. Sometimes, he even allowed himself to recall Celeborn, but such thoughts were fleeting, a shadowy recollection of silver hair and wise eyes. Never a father.

When these memories returned, Findur found himself unable to concentrate on any meaningful task. He would spend hours sitting alone, possessed by so many thoughts, a few of them fair, many terrible and consuming. At these times, not even Liniel could comfort him. She had learned to let him alone until such fits had passed, demonstrating a lack of persistence that was rare for her.

Once, when such a mood had taken him, he found himself sitting alone by the mere, gazing at his rippled reflection in the water. His eyes burned with a fiery light, but his face was unusually pallid, a strange, sickly contrast against dark hair. Never had he seen such a distasteful image in his life, the product of grief and an inevitable source of grief.

Suddenly he had an urge to leap into the mere, to break the shadowy reflection and end all this madness. Though aware of the irrationality of his thoughts, the image and the notion stayed with him for a long time. He wondered what would come to pass if he gave up his life. He imagined Liniel's reaction.

He wondered if he looked like his father.

  


"Morfindel, will you ever come out of this shop?"

Findur looked up from his worktable. Liniel stood in the doorway, hands on hips. The smell of freshly baked bread was about her, a byproduct of one of her few endeavors into domesticity.

"Just a few minutes," he said.

Liniel gave him a skeptical look. Her eyes fell on the rows of plowshares, nails, sconces, arrow heads, and the like which were cooling beside the forge. "You've finished all of your work," she observed. "What are you doing now?"

"Just sketching out designs using some of the techniques Kali showed me."

"The Dwarf?"

"Yes, the Dwarf. Just because you're angry at my preoccupation with work doesn't give you an excuse to feign ignorance of my business contacts."

Kali certainly was a frequent enough visitor to warrant name recognition. Smith of Khazad-dûm and sometimes trader with King Thranduil, he had met Findur some years ago on his way to Thranduil's hall in the east. Discovering with delight that the elf actually possessed a fervor towards crafts almost equal to his own, Kali was quick to make friends with Findur. Now he stopped at Findur's shop nearly every time he made a trip to Greenwood. He had become Findur's main supplier of tools and equipment, although for actual raw materials Findur was obliged to trade with Khazad-dûm itself. In addition, they often shared metalworking techniques and insights. It was Kali who first introduced Findur to the crafting of jewelry and fine ornamentation. Not only was it a pleasant pastime and a source of income, but his work had received the notice of the King of Greenwood himself, who was well-known for his appreciation of precious metals and gems.

Liniel, disbelieving of her husband's previous assertions of speed, entered the small, dusty shop and sat down on a wooden stool beside Findur's worktable. "Let me see," she said, peering over the drafts that Findur had drawn of a necklace, delicate links connected in intricate patterns to make up the chain. White jewels would actually be encrusted within the chain, so minute that they were practically imperceptible in the initial sketches. In practice, however, they would give the entire chain a shimmering gleam.

"It's wonderful," said Liniel. "Like something from Gondolin, or Eregion."

Findur smiled. "Such arts are beyond my skill. They lie more in your domain, my love. It is only a necklace."

"Will you make it?" As she spoke, Liniel began to rummage through the other drawings that were strewn out upon the table. Findur swiftly took one of the pieces of parchment from the bottom of the stack and put it away in a drawer, careful to keep the inked side away from Liniel's view. Liniel's eyes followed his movements, but she said nothing of it. "Will you?" she pressed.

"I'll at least attempt it. The next time that Kali passes through—" But Findur halted in mid-sentence. "Do you hear something?"

Liniel shook her head. "What is it?"

Findur listened. It was the sound of hoofbeats.

"That's strange," said Liniel, when he told her this. "Hardly anyone travels on horseback here. It's simply not practical, after all, unless you're a skilled rider."

Together, they ventured out to the path, and listened carefully. Now Liniel, too, could hear the distant rhythm. Soon, horse and rider could be seen in the distance, rapidly approaching the cottage. Gradually, however, they slowed.

"How odd," said Liniel. "Who could possibly want to see us?"

  


Wine was scarce in Greenwood Forest, where the climate was no good for grapes, but tonight they drank it in plenty. After all, Liniel had said as she unearthed a well-aged bottle in the cellar, wine should be saved for an important occasion, and tonight certainly qualified under that category.

It still seemed unreal, and every few seconds Findur wondered if all his memories, beginning with the messenger's arrival, were not part of some great, fantastic dream from which he would shortly wake. Yet here before him lay the letter that he had received, both signed and sealed with the mark of Thranduil, a green rune stylized to resemble a tree. He picked it up and reread it, aloud for added effect:

" 'King Thranduil, sovereign lord of Greenwood the Great, requests the presence of Morfindel and his household to a banquet honoring the 210th year of his Majesty's reign...' " He paused and looked up at Liniel. "That's rather morbid, don't you think? In effect, he's celebrating his father's death."

"Morfindel! Honestly!" Liniel did her best to frown and glare disapprovingly. In the end, she was forced to hide her amused smile by taking a long draught of wine. "I think it is you, my dear," she concluded as she set her goblet on the table, "who is the morbid one."

"Ah, this from the woman whose paintings are full of blood and corpses," he retorted in mock annoyance, his blue eyes sparkling.

"Only occasionally," she insisted, toying with her bread in such a way that Findur worried that she might hurl it at him. "And I rarely any paint any more, so your point is nil. Now go on reading. I want to hear it again."

He raised an eyebrow at her demanding eagerness. If their bantering was not in jest, it might irritate him. "As you wish," he said with a sycophantic smile. "Where was I... oh, yes. 'A banquet honoring the 210th year of his Majesty's reign, to take place in the halls of the King on the 40th day of _iavas_, in light of his celebrated achievements in the arts of jewel-smithing and metal-smithing. (1) Accommodations will be provided for all guests."

There was a long pause, during which Liniel smiled into her empty goblet, her image refracting multifold through the glass like a prism, and Findur smiled at Liniel, at her deep gray eyes bright with some lovely secret and her dark hair falling about her shoulders, shimmering like silk in the light of the fire.

"It is everything we have hoped for," she murmured, her chin resting on the backs of her hands. "You're sure to receive a post in Thranduil's court, you must know that."

"We cannot make assumptions," Findur began, but Liniel cut him off.

"Morfindel," she said in a slow, lucid tone. "You are practically the only blacksmith in the entire Wood. Greenwood has not had a royal smith since the days of Oropher's reign. You have been given commissions from the court, and Thranduil has always been tremendously pleased with your work. He has just invited us to a banquet. What does that suggest to you?"

"Of course it is a possibility. I am just being realistic."

"No, you are being ridiculous."

Findur shrugged. "Perhaps. For the time being, I will not worry about it." He looked down at his plate and realized that, compared to Liniel, he had eaten little of his food. He picked up his roll, bit into it, and made a face.

Liniel scowled at him. "Come, it isn't that bad."

"No, it's not," he admitted. "I just wanted to see your reaction. You're so amusing when you're angry."

Liniel opened her mouth to retort, but instead burst out in laughter. She stood up and picked up Findur's empty goblet and her own dishes. "Put your plate in the kitchen when you are through. Arandulë has her day off today, remember. I'll go fill the washtub, but it's your turn to wash dishes."

As she walked away, Findur felt a contentedness wash over him, a sharp contrast to his previous apprehension. "Ridiculous," he repeated under his breath. Liniel was right. His cynicism was unwarranted. Why shouldn't Thranduil hire him? He deserved a chance to exercise his talents fully.

_You deserve nothing_, a voice within him hissed. But he brushed it away, finished his roll, and went to join Liniel in the kitchen.

  


The day of their departure dawned warm and fair. Not a single cloud marred the bright morning sky. It was as if the autumn, in line with its weary, sluggish nature, had dozed off for a few moments, so that summer had slipped past him to offer the world a few days of illusory summer.

Liniel spent the morning rushing about the house, searching for misplaced articles of clothing and half-forgotten objects that had suddenly proved essential to their journey. Although she was for the most part meticulous, she had a habit of casting aside items that, at the time, she deemed useless, and later was in dire need of them. At first Findur helped her in her search, for, though outwardly he was a bit of a slob, he had an excellent sense of organization; he could leave his possessions in a pile and later recall exactly where a certain small item was among them. Naturally, after eight score years together, this knack applied to Liniel's things as well. However, when her mode of searching degraded from a methodical hunt to pure guesswork, he found time to slip away and perform a certain necessary task that he had been putting off for days.

"Findur, you are a sentimental fool," he muttered to himself as he stood in the hallway, admiring the contrast of the crimson blood against the pale, jewel-studded sand in Liniel's landscape of Alqualondë. He lifted the painting off the wall, sat down with it upon a nearby bench, pried off the backing, slipped the letter into the frame, and secured the backing again. It was an ideal hiding place, even apart from the dramatic implications. It seemed hazardous to bring his mother's letter with him to Thranduil's hall; indeed, he had been foolish not to better guard it these past years. No one, not even Liniel, would ever dismantle this painting. The letter would remain within. His secret was safe.

Naturally, he had chosen a painting that sensationalized the occasion—both painting and letter were symbols of the utter irrationalism and contradiction that was his life (_Findur, son of the Dark Lord and the noble Kinslayers_, he thought with a wry smirk). It was also a forceful reminder that his self-loathing was not always rational. Galadriel had, in fact, fought on the side of the Teleri, her close kin, in the First Kinslaying; their blood was by no means on either of their hands.

In all honesty, the painting had much more to do with Liniel that with him. It was a vestige of the time when she had harbored a significant amount of anger towards the Noldor, who, as she saw it, were responsible for many of the sorrows that had befallen Middle-earth. In a roundabout way, she blamed them for her parents' death. That was, of course, many years ago. According to those people of the village with whom he was friendly, Liniel had been brooding and reclusive ever since she came to this part of Greenwood, a trend that grew worse after her mother's disappearance. It had only been with their marriage that these tendencies had passed. It perplexed Findur to think that _he_ could have possibly induced such changes, but it pleased him to know that his marriage was not a nightmare. He recalled an old children's story he had heard when he was young, about a man who turned everything he touched into dust. He had often feared that he was that man. Perhaps it was not so.

The sound of footsteps at the door startled him, and he immediately stood up and hung the picture back up. His hands had barely left the frame as Arandulë entered the house along with a young man, Halion, with whom she had been spending a considerable amount of time lately. Neither seemed aware of the implications of his position, and he quickly moved his hand away. 

"Hello," said Arandulë. "We were on our way back to the village, and I thought I would stop and see what work it is that you need me to do while you are gone."

Findur thought for a moment. "I believe I left a list in the kitchen, but I cannot guarantee that it is still there. Liniel is tearing apart the house in her last minute packing."

On cue, Liniel's voice rose up from the other room. "Where _is_ that wretched stocking?"

Arandulë giggled, and Findur sighed. "I had better go and help her," he said, excusing himself with a nod. As he made his way to the other end of the house, he listened contentedly to his wife's small noises of impatience. Absurd, how such small idiosyncrasies made him love her the more.

  


Liniel was unusually giddy as they readied for the banquet. When Findur was dressed and ready to depart, Liniel was still sitting at the dressing table, fussing with her clothes and hair, talking and laughing all the time.

"What do you think of this one?" she asked, holding up a silver pendant with a small white jewel against her green dress.

"Everything looks beautiful on you," he assured her.

Liniel rolled her eyes, but she smiled nonetheless. "Flatterer," she teased. "Or do you simply want me to hurry? Don't worry. We have plenty of time."

"I know. I'm anxious." I realized that he was pacing and sat down in the chair beside the dressing table. "It is an honor to be here, and I would like to make a good impression."

"You already have," Liniel said. "If you hadn't, we would never have been invited to begin with." She paused to riffle through her jewelry again, coming up this time with a dark red stone dangling from a golden chain. He had made the setting for her only a few weeks ago, and now she donned it with a satisfied smile. "We can show off the good craftsmanship," she joked as she clasped the chain around her neck. Yet he doubted her words were entirely in jest.

"Who's anxious now?" he exclaimed. "Thranduil has seen plenty of my work. My wife need not be a walking advertisement."

"It hardly hurts." Liniel adjusted the jewel slightly in the mirror, and turned to face him. "Think, Morfindel," she said, her eyes shining. "This night will change everything. When you get a position as—"

"_If_ I get a position."

Liniel laughed and leaned forward to kiss him. "Not this again. Thranduil himself said that he has not seen such talent since days long past. There's no need to be so modest."

"In _some_ places, modesty is held as a virtue," he replied.

"Ah, well, you cannot expect such decorum from the backward elves of Greenwood," Liniel said lightly. "I'm sure your modesty would be better appreciated in Imladris, or wherever it is you high folk come from."

Findur stiffened at her words. They did not mean anything, of course. Liniel and he had a nearly unspoken understanding about his past; it was not to be disclosed, nor could it safely be. Liniel was not prodding; she was simply teasing him. After all, why shouldn't he come from Imladris? His accent and his lack of exposure to Silvan culture indicated such a locale. It was a natural choice on her part.

Liniel observed his deep frown and knit eyebrows. "What is it?"

Findur relaxed his face and managed to smile at her reassuringly. "I suppose I'm still nervous."

Liniel threw him a skeptical glance as she turned back to the vanity, scooping up her jewelry and placing the pile into her trinket box. "Don't be. Everything will be wonderful. You'll see."

  


Just as the sun began to set, casting a soft gray hue upon the light that streamed through the westerly windows, an attendant arrived to escort them to the banquet hall. He led them deep into the heart of the caverns, the passageways growing broader and grander at each turn. Findur stared in awe at the wide doorways and tall pillars hewn from the living rock. The walls were carven with beautiful patterns traced with silver and studded with gems. The labyrinth corridors were intricate and endless, and he soon abandoned his attempts to deduce where they were in relation to their rooms.

Juxtaposed to his wonder was the unavoidable sense that he was beholding a paltry model, as like to the glory of Menegroth of old as a boy's play-sword was to an elven blade in the hand of a warrior. A gemmed star design upon the wall was a poor witness to Thingol's throne room, its vaulted ceiling arrayed with jewels in the likeness of the stars of Valimar. _And now Menegroth has gone under the sea_, he thought, an audible sigh escaping his lips. Liniel put a hand upon his shoulder and gave him a questioning look. He returned her look with eyes that assured, "It's nothing."

_Nothing and everything_, he corrected himself. Both words applied to the memory of the elves of Middle-earth: a tenuous whisper in the winds of time, the slurred dream-murmurs of a dying people. _It need not have been reduced to this_, he thought as he followed the silvery lines of a carven eagle with his eyes. _Why have our kingdoms dwindled to empty shadow-lands? What has happened to my people?_

The eagle did not reply, his vacant stone eyes regarding Findur with profound indifference.

After some minutes of walking, they came to a great arched doorway, runes chiseled above the arc. Their guide led them past the threshold into a lively hall of light and laughter. The circular hall had a lofty domed ceiling. Red torches hung about its perimeter, casting a merry light upon the room and its occupants. A long table was set with all manners of meats and dishes, including a great slab of venison and several bottles of wine imported from the acclaimed vineyards of Dorwinion. King Thranduil was seated at the head of the table. He was a formidable-looking man, with blazing eyes and golden hair that shone in the torchlight beneath a crown of berries and red leaves.

To Findur's utter astonishment, the king stood up as they walked through the doorway, hailing them with a lifted hand and a smile. "So we meet again, Morfindel," he said when they came within speaking range. "And this must be your wife." He nodded in Liniel's direction. "I am afraid I do not know your name, my lady."

"I am Liniel, daughter of Celahir, my king," said Liniel with a nod and smile, meeting the king's eyes. 

"Celahir," Thranduil repeated thoughtfully. His sharp gray eyes suddenly took on a somber expression. "I knew your father. He was a good man."

"Yes, he was."

"It is an honor to be invited, my lord," Findur said as they walked together to the table.

Thranduil, again donning his merry smile, shook his head. "The honor is all mine. Such a gifted craftsman is a rarity in Greenwood. Your work excels anything that I have seen of elven-make. Come, take a seat and enjoy the feast. Perhaps we can speak further after the meal." With that, he sat down again, leaving a surprised Findur and a contented Liniel to be seated.

Once situated, Findur scanned the rows of faces around him. At the head of the table sat Thranduil, and beside him, a lovely woman with dark hair and a shrewd glint in her eyes: Thranduil's wife, he supposed. On either side of them sat a few important-looking men, most likely Thranduil's councilors, as well as some members of the royal family, distinguishable by their golden hair. After them, lesser councilors, then a handful of foreign guests: a few dwarves who looked altogether out of place with their bright mail and massive beards, and some elves whose dress gave them a rather foreign look, perhaps from Belfalas and Lórinand...

And Imladris.

Findur felt his heart clench as he stared in astonishment at the familiar face of Narion, the master of the forge of Imladris: the dark hair and uncanny green eyes, mouth drawn up in a characteristic half-smile as he spoke unenthusiastically to a nearby elf. Findur immediately stood, turning his face from the table so that Narion might not see him.

Liniel looked at her husband. "What is it?"

"Quick. We must go," Findur hissed, taking Liniel's hand and hastening to the door.

Liniel wrenched her hand out of his, but she followed him into the hallway.

"Are you out of your mind?" she demanded once they were out of hearing range. She grabbed his arm in an effort to slow him down, but Findur instead quickened his pace. "What on earth is wrong? Look, it we go back now—"

"If I had stayed tonight, everything would have been ruined," said Findur. "That is all I can tell you. I have a good reason. Please, just trust me."

"Reason," Liniel repeated skeptically. "How, may I ask, is reason involved when a man abruptly leaves a banquet and can't even explain himself to his own wife?"

Findur did not reply. They had come to an intersection, and he was trying to remember which passage led to their rooms. He finally noticed a familiar carving on the wall of the corridor to their left, and opted to continue in that direction.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"I'm listening," said Findur softly.

But Liniel did not reply for several moments. "It's your past," she said finally. "I can't fathom what, but it's something you've hidden from me. I'm tired of this, Morfindel. Why can't you simply tell me the truth?"

_You would not say such things if you knew_, he thought idly.

"...it's utterly unreasonable to expect me to blindly follow you. You leave with some insane notion in your head..."

_You would despise the very sight of me._

"...jeopardizing our entire future, without the slightest hint of a reasonable explanation..."

_You would wish me a corpse._

"...and now you expect me to_ trust_ you?"

"Yes!" he cried, coming to a halt. "I am your husband and you are my wife. Isn't that reason enough for you? Now leave me be!" He sped up again, leaving Liniel behind.

After a lengthy period of time spent navigating the maze-like hallways, Findur arrived in his chambers. He felt suddenly, inexplicably weary, and took a seat in the main room, closing his eyes in what he knew would only be a temporary repose.

Several minutes later, he heard light footsteps in the exterior hallway and the opening and closing of the door. A few moments later, he felt Liniel's presence beside him. She sat on the arm of the chair and wrapped her arms around him, leaning against him so that he could fell her heartbeat, a light, steady pulse against his shoulder blade. He opened his eyes in surprise. This was not the greeting that he had expected.

They shared a few moments of companionable silence. Then Liniel spoke. "Oh, Morfindel," she murmured, smoothing his hair with her fingertips. "Will you not reveal what darkness troubles you so, that you will say aught of it, even to me?"

"I would tell you if I could," he said in a measured voice that barely masked his impatience. "It is not a secret I can share, for your sake as well as mine."

Liniel gave him a sharp look. "If you fear that I lack discretion, you do not know me very well. I do not see what harm it can do if just we two know. Nothing you can say will make me think of you any differently. Please, darling."

Findur felt anger again wash over him, a burning annoyance at Liniel's persistence, at her complete lack of comprehension when it came to the gravity of the situation. He stood, disentangling her arms from about himself. "You don't understand. You make promises about what you know nothing about." Didn't she listen? He could never tell her, not Liniel or anyone else. And why did she not leave?

Liniel stood, but she showed no indications of leaving the room. "My love, please," she said once more, softly but firmly.

"Will you not do as I say?" Findur shouted. He struck her across the face with all the strength that he could muster.

Liniel stumbled back from the impact of the blow, crumpling against a chair. As Findur watched her, he felt a sudden lurch in his stomach, a repulsion against his own actions that filled his entire being with numbness. His hands were trembling. He wanted to help her up, but he found that he could only stand in place as she stabilized herself. Blood was trickling from her nose. For a moment, her eyes were liquid with tears, but this was swiftly replaced by a cold glare that pierced Findur's heart.

"Get out." Her voice came fierce and sudden, such a definite command that it did not occur to him that there was any alternative.

* * *

1. _40 iavas_ approximately September 10 in our calendar.

Big ugly canonical error alert: the Halls of Thranduil didn't exist until well into the Third Age. Moreover, I actually realized this halfway through writing it, and decided that the artistic message it conveyed was more important than the small detail I was butchering. Looking back, I would not have made this choice, but it's rather too late now.


	8. Inheritance

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien's. Not mine.  
Timeframe: T.A. 210  
**Rating (this chapter):** PG for themes of violence

**Shadow Child  
Chapter VIII: Inheritance**

They had never argued before, not like this. No, that wasn't true. Once before. Liniel wanted to discuss having a child. It wasn't as if they had actively avoided parenthood, they simply had been too busy managing their own lives to really consider it. Now, Liniel had said, her face lit up with an uncharacteristic maternal glow, was the time. What did he think?

Findur remembered the fear and the self-reproach that had washed over him at that moment. He had looked at Liniel with new eyes. He could not see her as a mother. Himself, a father? Children, of the son of the Dark Lord? He should have never allowed himself to stay in Greenwood.

He had tried to justify his reply with so many excuses—that he was not ready for the responsibility of fatherhood, that they had both been happy until now without children, hadn't they? Liniel had attempted to reason with him at first, but she had soon become furious with his unrelenting excuses. She had accused him of spending more time in his shop than with her, alluding to his bouts of melancholy. He had angrily retorted that she was misrepresenting the facts.

"What else is to be expected?" Liniel had shouted in reply, her hands in fists. "How am I supposed to understand you if I do not even know who you are?" She had stormed out of the house, slamming the door with such fury that one of the hinges broke, the door left dangling lopsidedly within its frame.

A few minutes later, he had gone to apologize. He had found her sitting on the lowest branch of the small beech tree that bent over the garden like a wizened old man, staring pensively at a rosy pink eglantine blossom that she had plucked from a nearby bush.

"Hello," she had said softly, not looking up. 

He had replied by kissing her forehead. "I'm sorry. I was being... selfish. I love you, and if you want..."

"Don't apologize," Liniel had interrupted, lifting her head suddenly. "I was unkind." She did not actually refute her earlier statements. "We have plenty of time to have children. If you want to wait, that's fine."

"Then you forgive me?"

A mischievous smile had appeared on Liniel's face. "All right," she had agreed. "As long as you promise to fix the door."

Thus followed nearly one hundred and twenty years of comparative marital bliss. The question of children had never arisen again. Findur had sometimes wondered if Liniel had resigned to waiting; after all, after two-hundred years, even a couple who tried to avoid conception would eventually have a slip-up. That would be not be uncharacteristic; though she had a forceful personality, she was not predisposed to making emotional shows to get her way. Her first outburst was something of an oddity. And after all, it wasn't as if he would be devastated if Liniel became with child—he simply did not feel it right to purposely pursue such a goal.

Now he walked silently through Thranduil's halls, detesting himself all the more and wondering if his marriage was even salvageable. He looked down at his hands, hands from which violence had flowed forth towards the woman that he loved most. _I pushed her away as if she were a fly buzzing beside my ear, a mere nuisance to be dealt with_, he realized with a shudder.

He could not lie to her indefinitely. But what could he tell her? He could not afford to lose her. If he did, he would be even more alone than before. The prospect was unbearable. 

His footsteps echoed throughout the vacant corridors, unheard by all but himself.

  


When he returned to their room, all of Liniel's possessions were gone. His own things had been packed rather messily into open bags that sat on his bed. He almost smiled at the crumpled articles hidden beneath neatly folded clothing, designed to give a pretense of tidiness. On the top of his luggage lay a piece of parchment marked with hastily scrawled characters in black ink. "Explained we had urgent business at home." There was no signature. He picked up the note and gazed at it as if were some precious artifact, clutched it tightly in his balled fist. He fancied that there was an aroma wafting from it, a scent like roses. He wondered if she would be there when he returned home.

The next few days were, quite frankly, hell. He took no great pains in speeding home; in fact, he dreaded his arrival. He could not fathom what he would say to Liniel. Each time he attempted to postulate a response, he was soon drawn to the same inevitable conclusion—there was nothing that he could say to justify or properly apologize for his actions. Treating someone like that, it was barbaric, inexcusable.

Why then had he done it? Anger—perhaps. He had only wanted to silence her, to make her leave. She was threatening to ruin everything. Simply put, she had become an inconvenience.

  


When he arrived home, Liniel was not there. His first reaction was that she had left for good, but this was a ridiculous notion. If there was a separation between them, _he_ would be the one leaving, not Liniel. It had been her home in the beginning. Besides, she would never let herself be supplanted. Liniel did not run away from her problems.

Arandulë was kneeling in the main room, scrubbing the floor. She was a very diligent worker and did not hear him as he took off his cloak in the foyer. On a whim, he grabbed a damp cloth from the soapy bucket of water near the doorway and knelt down in order to assist her.

At this, Arandulë looked up suddenly. "Stop! I have a system. You will only get in the way."

Findur smiled for the first time in days. "All right," he conceded, putting the cloth back into the bucket and edging away back into the hallway as to not step on the damp floor.

"So, how did your business go?" Arandulë asked as she continued scrubbing.

"Business?"

Arandulë shrugged. "I assumed that was what held you up. Liniel has hardly spoken a word to me in explanation. She has been acting strangely all day."

Findur chose to ignore this comment. "Do you know where she is?" he asked in a more subdued voice.

Arandulë thought for a moment. "I'm honestly not sure. I remember her saying that she had to meet with someone, but she's been gone for quite a long time. Perhaps she had something else to do. She has been meaning to go into town for weeks to purchase wool for winter clothes."

Findur nodded, wondering whom Liniel could possibly have gone to see. "Thank you. I'll bring in my bags, and then I'll be down at the shop." 

Liniel was standing beside the mere, as if waiting for him. She must have returned while he and Arandulë were talking. Findur turned off his course towards the shop and slowly walked towards her.

He felt as if he had lived this moment a thousand times. The shimmering mere, the indignant expression in Liniel's eyes, a tension in his stomach like the shaky building strains of a stringed instrument before reaching the climactic note—they all came together perfectly, as if preordained echoes of an inevitable future become present. He had been asleep for almost two centuries, his dreams plagued with the eyes and the fears, only to wake and find that they had not been dreams at all, but a glimpse of his destiny. All along, he had known in his heart that this could not last.

Liniel's face was turned away from him, but he could see her image reflected in the water, a rippled portrait of sharp lines and cold eyes. It reminded him of the many paintings that hung on the walls of their house, Liniel's paintings. She did not paint so much anymore. He did not think he had ever seen her looking so hostile and alone as she did now.

She undoubtedly had heard his approach, but did not acknowledge him. Her forehead was wrinkled in frustration, as if she were trying to solve some terrible, infinitely complex problem. A few moments of silence lapsed. A cool autumn breeze circled their two bodies, sending curled, browning leaves to the ground.

"Liniel," he said softly. "I know you have every right to be angry with me... but could you at least look at me?"

She slowly turned around. Face to face, she looked far more careworn than her hazy reflection had revealed. Her face was purposely stiff, a mask of anger, but her eyes were bloodshot, the skin underneath red from crying. She did not look like she had slept in days.

"I'm sorry," he said. His voice was rough but hardly louder than a whisper. "I had no right..." His words trailed off, and Liniel interrupted him. Though her voice was stern and forceful, it was also surprisingly measured. Only her eyes hinted at the pain that she held within.

"Before you breathe another word," she said, "you will tell me who you are, and where you come from, and why we left that banquet. Do you understand? We will stand here as long as it takes, but neither of us is leaving until you tell me the truth, Morfindel."

"Liniel," he began, but again he faltered. What could he tell her that would appease her?

_Only the truth._

"My name is Findur," he said. The name, unpronounced for so long, sounded strange on his tongue. "I am the son of the Lady Galadriel. I came here from Imladris."

For a moment, an expression of horror formed on Liniel's face, her mouth half-open in shock, her eyes bright with tears. But this flicker of emotion was quickly replaced by a mask of deceptive calm only tinged with uneasiness.

"I see," she said. "I should have guessed you were of high blood. But... but what cause would a man of such great lineage have to leave his home?"

The question that he could not answer. He gave Liniel a pleading look. "I'm sorry. I truly am. But I honestly can't give you a satisfactory answer. As I said when we were married—I am a dangerous person to be near. Cursed, if you like. There is nothing more to say."

To his surprise, Liniel did not argue. "All right. I believe you. I... I trust you, although I certainly have little reason to. Why did you leave the banquet, then?"

He exhaled, thankful that the subject had been changed. "I saw someone from Imladris—my old teacher. I did not want him to see me; I don't want them to know where I am." He paused. "Liniel, I've hurt you. A shadow came over me, and I have said and done things that I will forever regret. You cannot know how sorry I am."

The coldness returned to Liniel's eyes, and the hostility to her voice. "If it _ever_ happens again—"

"It won't."

Liniel continued as if she had not heard him. "I won't be treated like that," she said. "I will not suffer for your secrets; I will not sacrifice myself for you." She shook her head. "All this day—I can only think of my mother. She was so weak, so dependent in her love. She realized my father was dead, and died with him. I won't be like that."

"That's not what I want," said Findur, caught off guard by this comparison. "That's the last thing I want."

There was a long silence. Findur could hear the calls of migrating birds and the noisy flow of the river into the mere. A thought came to him, and he spoke. "Liniel... if you want to me to go, I will. I will go and never trouble you again."

At this, Liniel looked up and met his eyes. "Do you think that's what I want?" Her gray eyes were suddenly so warm and sad, as if with compassion. She stepped closer to him, lifting up her small hands and running her fingers over the contours of his face, as if she were trying to memorize his facial features. As she did this, she stared at him intently, and he longed to turn away, afraid that his gaze would reveal the thoughts of his innermost heart. But her eyes... they were so soft, almost kind, his wife's eyes. He yielded to her touch.

Her hands traveled over his lips, his cheekbones, his eyelids, his brow. Finally, she gently kissed his mouth. "Oh, Morfindel, my Morfindel." Her words were almost a sigh. "It's not your name, I know—but to me, you will always be Morfindel, my dark-haired one."

She had forgiven him.

"Come," she said, taking him by the hands and leading him into the house. "Let's sit down. I want to know everything that you can tell me. I want to know Findur."

He wordlessly followed her inside.

  


The next morning, Findur woke to the pounding of hooves against the dirt road that ran past the house. He automatically turned to rouse Liniel, but found her side of the bed vacant, though the mattress was yet warm. As he drowsily tried to process the events around him, the sounds from the road gradually diminished and stopped entirely. Two voices began speaking. One of them was Liniel's, but in his half-asleep state, he could not make out the words.

He pulled himself out of bed, staggered over to the basin beside the window, and splashed some water on his face. From the window, he could see that the sun was high above the trees, giving the browning forest canopy a golden sheen.

Slowly, his mental capabilities returned to him, and he began to dress. As he was buttoning up his shirt, Liniel burst into the room. Her hair, which she often braided for functionality, still flowed freely around her shoulders, but she wore an alert, cheerful expression on her face. "Come, be quick!" she exclaimed. "A messenger from Thranduil is here. He says he has good news!" Spontaneously, Liniel leaned over and kissed her husband, her smile growing wider every second.

Findur felt a wave of disbelief come over him. "Are you sure... I mean..."

Liniel laughed, straightening his collar and smoothing his unruly hair. "Of course I'm sure! Findur, this is it. Now hurry!"

As he slipped on his shoes, Findur assimilated this new, heartening piece of information. A messenger from King Thranduil, bearing good words. Liniel, positively giddy, as if the past few days had never happened. He had surely gotten the post with Thranduil. His face suddenly broke into a grin, Liniel's glee and his own wonder getting the best of him.

_This day is the beginning of something momentous_, he realized as they ran up to the road where the messenger waited.

_Something great in my life. I am no longer Morfindel, the dark one, the hidden. I have mastered my destiny. I am the lord of my own fate._

He looked at Liniel, with her shining eyes, and at the brown-clad messenger who stood above them on the road. Behind him, the sun bathed the forest in light, the crown jewel of a flawless blue sky. He inhaled deeply, taking in the warm forest air as if it were some sweet ambrosial substance. And he knew that it was so—this day, he had come into his inheritance.


	9. Execution

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.  
**Timeline:** T.A. 210; T.A. 245  
**Rating (this chapter):** PG-13 for themes of violence and death.

**Shadow Child  
Chapter IX: Execution**

At precisely four o'clock in the afternoon in the third month of his career as master smith under King Thranduil, Findur was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"The door is unlocked," Findur called as he stood, setting his work down on a nearby table and walking across his large sitting room to meet whoever might be at the door. As he walked, he observed with satisfaction how the slanting westward sun passed through the paned windows, striking the gleaming floorboards and dancing on the surfaces of the furniture. The furniture, especially, pleased him; it fit very well in their new home. Considering the trouble they had gone to in order to move the contents of their household across the Wood, any incongruity between the furnishings and their new living space would be irritating, to say the least.

The door opened with a slight squeak; Findur grimaced at the disharmonious sound. In the doorway stood one of the nondescript messengers who seemed to be constantly scurrying about Thranduil's halls and the surrounding woods. "My lord," he said with a small bow, "there is a man who has come to see you. A mortal man, I mean. It is a strange occurrence; there has not been a mortal in the King's realm for nigh over a century, unless you number Dwarves as such, but they are a strange breed of their own..."

"Is there any point to this digression?" asked Findur with a tense smile.

The messenger broke off his tangent. "I apologize," he said breathlessly. "As I was saying, he is a mortal. He wishes to speak with you in regard to the obtainment of a position as an assistant smith. He is waiting for you at your shop."

"Thank you," said Findur. "I will go and speak with him immediately." The messenger bowed and left. Findur stepped over the threshold of the doorway and closed the door behind him. He had not been outside since his walk home around noontime—he always took his rest on the afternoons of the fifth day of the week—and the weather had declined from mediocre to miserable. The sky above the leafless trees was a nondescript gray, and a chill wind swept past him, reducing his hair to a tangled mass, obscuring his vision. He ran his fingers through his hair in a largely futile attempt to straighten it, folded his arms across his chest, and began to walk swiftly to his nearby shop. Already he was beginning to rue his decision to live in a house on the outskirts of Thranduil's domain rather than in the halls themselves, where hundreds of fireplaces warmed its vast passages and the shelter of rock and earth retained heat. However, Liniel had insisted on a home where sunlight and trees abounded; most importantly, it must be in a locale where she could easily continue her gardening. Admittedly, their house was nearer to his shop than rooms in the halls would be, making for a briefer trip through the frigid, gray landscape of winter. In only a few minutes, he would reach the shop and learn precisely what this person wanted. Why would a mortal man seek employment among the elves of Greenwood?

When he came to the shop, a smallish stone building on the bank of a narrow stream, he saw that the door was ajar. Thievery was a non-issue in these woods, and Findur rarely bothered to lock doors. His visitor, it would seem, had taken advantage of his indiscretion. Cautiously, Findur swung open the door and entered the building.

Even with his keen eyesight, it took Findur a few moments to discover his visitor among the many tables and tools that cluttered the cramped, ill-lit chamber. The man was sitting on a low stool in the very back of the room. He wore a hood, and his back and neck were bent over with age, making it difficult for Findur to discern his facial features. What was evident, however, was that he was extremely old. His tough, tanned skin was impossibly wrinkled, thick, pale blue veins and ugly discolorations marring his face and hands, though his gray eyes sparkled with a crafty gleam. Recognizing that Findur had spotted him, the man stood and walked forward with a grin. Many of his teeth were mottled with decay, and others were missing altogether.

"Who are you?" Findur demanded, starring at the man in wonder and disgust.

"I am Curuan," the old man said, his voice gravelly but surprisingly powerful. "I will not ask you for a name, for I have no use for dramatic aliases. You are Findur, bastard son of Sauron and the Lady Galadriel, and that is all I need to know."

Before Findur could properly process this stranger's knowledge of his most preciously kept secret, fury overtook his facilities. "Do not speak thus of the Lady Galadriel if you wish to keep your life!" he exclaimed, drawing the long knife that he habitually kept at his side. But Curuan only laughed hoarsely, shaking his head at this show of anger.

"I beg your pardon," he chuckled. "I meant no offense towards you or your mother, but I'm afraid there was no polite way to say what had to be said. Enough formalities. Let's get down to business, shall we?"

Findur, yet untrusting of this stranger, did not reply directly. "I would like to know how you know me!"

Curuan shook his head, still smiling a small, crooked smile. "All in good time, all in good time. Let me just say that I know a great deal about many things. The identity of such an important person is hardly difficult information to come by. For you are very important, you must know that."

Findur gave the man a cold glare, but he returned his knife to its sheath. "I am an elf of Greenwood and nothing more. My fate is my own. I will not be manipulated by any greater powers."

Curuan laughed again. It was a hideous, rasping sound that made Findur wince. "I suppose you mean good and evil. My friend, such concepts are only one way of looking at things, and they are hardly accurate. Good and evil, right and wrong, light and dark—you don't honestly believe that the world can be separated into neat categories, do you?"

Findur hesitated. The man's words appealed to him, for to deny the existence of such "categories" would confirm his convictions of independence, justifying his attempts to escape the threads of fate that were seemingly entwined about his life. But... if there was neither good nor evil, then what of the Valar? What of Sauron?

"I do not know," he replied.

"Well," said Curuan, "then perhaps we can discuss it, and then you will know. Think of power, think of great forces colliding again and again. Good and evil are no longer an issue; in fact, they even become invalid concepts. You are in control of much power, Findur. You must accept this—or, if you prefer, you can hide behind your fear and free will, while the opposing powers advance, ready to crush you. For they will come, and they will not stop because you plead heedlessness."

Findur only glared at the ancient-faced man. "You speak in riddles, evading my question. Who are you, and what reason do I have to trust you?"

Curuan scoffed at the last remark. "Trust, like goodness or evil, is a fallacy. You will cooperate with me if it benefits you, and for no other reason will you do so. Utilitarianism, Findur. Always act rationally and in a way consistent with your goals. None of this nonsense about trust or loyalty. But I see that you will not let go this business of how I've come about my knowledge of you. A rather long, tedious story, but elves _are_ so fond of such tales, is it not so? I suggest that you take a seat, and I'll begin."

Findur perched himself on a nearby stool. "Go on, then."

Curuan cleared his throat, a sound remarkably similar to the croaking of a bullfrog. "Well then. Let's see, where did this all begin? I suppose Gondor would be the appropriate place to start my tale. It was many, many years ago, and I was considerably younger than I was now, though hardly young. I encountered a man whose family was involved with Easterlings. Mere chance, I can assure you; he was a crude, unpleasant fellow, but he possessed information that I found most interesting. I gave him the impression that I was a fellow supporter of Sauron, and he informed me of rumors that Sauron had left an heir. Very vague, what he told me, but nevertheless compelling—that such a powerful being remained undiscovered, a being who could have a profound effect on the future of Middle-earth. I decided to find this heir myself.

It became a bit of an obsession, you might say. I did some traveling, speaking with all sorts of people, until I had a good idea of who you were. That is, I became almost certain that Galadriel had been the mother of this child, since she had been captured during this time, and was sufficiently remarkable herself to be a rational choice on Sauron's part. That meant that the heir was _you_. I thought my search was finally over. But then you left Imladris, and some things went rather wrong, and I lost track of you. My chances of finding you again soon seemed negligible.

"Of course, there was still hope, since a man of your talent cannot easily disappear forever. It was only a matter of time before I heard of a young elven smith of impressive skill named Morfindel. The similarity between names was notable. My main hindrance was that I had never seen you. I could lurk in Greenwood for as long as I pleased, and I would never receive any definite affirmation that you were Findur of Imladris.

"And so I remained, occasionally travelling but always returning to Greenwood, for a great many years, my hope gradually decreasing, until a wondrous thing happened—the product of pure chance, I must say."

"Liniel told you," Findur said softly, appalled. How else might Curuan have come by this information? He was surprised it had not occurred to him before. But was Liniel capable of such a thing?

Curuan chuckled, shaking his head. "Really, my friend, you have so little faith in your loved ones, expecting betrayal so readily! I found your letter, Findur."

Findur gaped at him. "But... I have hardly let it out of my sight!"

"You left it at your home when you went to the banquet here, did you not?" Curuan reminded. "An ingenious hiding place, I must admit. But that servant of yours saw you put the painting back. I'm afraid I rather frightened the poor girl—you really shouldn't mention it to her, if you happen to see her again; any connection between you and I might be distressing to her—but I needed to know where the letter was. I knew that you carried a piece of parchment with you, but I had never had the opportunity to verify whether it was your mother's letter. So I went to the house while you were gone and demanded that she tell me any strange locations at which she had seen you. I would have ripped the entire house apart if necessary, but eventually she thought of the painting. And there you have it."

Findur stared at Curuan wordlessly. Slowly, a question came to mind amidst the tumult of his thoughts. "You speak as though you were alive before I left Imladris. You know of my mother's letter. But you're a mortal; you cannot possibly have been alive then."

Curuan's jagged smile grew wider and colder. His numberless wrinkles creased with each contortion of his face. "A mortal," he repeated. "What makes you so certain that I am a mortal, Findur?" Slowly, he lifted his stiff, veined hands and removed his hood. He pushed back the long, thin white hair that lined both sides of his face, revealing the ears of an elf. (1)

"I am no mortal," said Curuan. "I am an elf, five hundred and twenty three years old. Like any elf, I will live forever, but I will also perpetually age. It's a curse, a memento of the years that I spent in the dungeons of Mordor. Yes, I was alive when you were a mere child, before you were born, even. It was I, Findur, who was responsible for placing your mother's letter in your room those many years ago in Imladris. I thought it best that you know the truth about yourself before we proceeded any further."

Memories of that night returned to Findur, and he began to develop a distinct hatred of the man before him, in spite of his pathetic condition. However, a conundrum came to mind. "You—but I thought you had never seen me! If you were in Imladris, why wouldn't you have discovered what I looked like, for the sole purpose of keeping track of me?"

"Oh, that wasn't I who physically placed the letter there," said Curuan. "My poor health prevented me from traveling such a distance over the Mountains. Instead, I relied on Narion. He worked for me for quite a long time."

"Narion!" Would the horror of this afternoon never end? Narion, his teacher, a man he respected. Narion, critical and moody, but certainly not treacherous! "But... even if that is so, why didn't you simply have him identify me from the beginning?"

"We had a disagreement... creative differences, you might say," Curuan explained. "He refuses to collaborate with me anymore. Incidentally, I hear that he was present at the banquet that you attended, some months ago, held by the king. I couldn't go myself—wasn't invited, of course, and Thranduil's doors are difficult to slip through even for a skulker like me—but I'm sure _that_must have been an interesting night. Did he see you? If he had, he certainly wouldn't tell _me_ about it, but he would most likely let your dear relations back in Imladris know, and that wouldn't be very good, would it? Trying to elude them, I expect."

"He didn't see me. Though it's none of your concern."

"Whatever you like," Curuan said with a shrug. "Makes no difference to me. Let's return to our little treatise on the nature of the universe."

"Go on," said Findur grudgingly.

"Thank you. Now that we have established that there is no good or evil—"

"Wait a minute," he interrupted. "I haven't accepted that yet. You cannot tell me that it is not evil to... well, to kill an innocent person. A child, for instance."

"Circumstances! You give me a scenario without circumstances!" Curuan waved his hand in scorn. "_Everything_ depends on circumstances, my young friend. You see, there are obviously actions that improve the lives of people everywhere, as well as actions that make life worse for everyone. Most actions, however, fall in between these two extremes—the net result pleases some and displeases others. You will never make everyone happy, Findur. I'm hardly condoning pointless murder—but what if that murder saved other lives? What if it led to the creation of a thriving civilization? Certain actions with immediate negative results for a few can be justified—must be justified—if they have significant positive results.

"Secondly, let us realize that the standard concepts of good and evil are inherently flawed. They are based on the pretense that good people do good and vice versa. This is faulty logic. Even if there were such a thing as a perfectly good or bad person, which there is not, intentions do not equal outcome. Think of the Valar. They were very kind, very good, to let Melkor go after his first imprisonment, weren't they? Yet this had a terribly "evil" effect. One must therefore not judge by one's supposed "goodness" or lack of, but on the potential output of one's actions.

"Suddenly, we have an image of a world that does not revolve around the concepts of good and evil, but a collision of great powers, each struggling to dominate. You are one of these powers, Findur, although you do not know it. You can make use of your powers, which have long been dormant, and shape the future of Middle-earth itself. I know your dreams—they are the dreams of all those who possess such power, dreams loftier than those of half-asleep elves or mortal men. You dream of a great elven kingdom in Middle-earth. You dream of the restoration of your people's honor and majesty. Why not, Findur? Why not such a glorious kingdom, and you at its head? Do not think that you can push away these secret hopes. They will not lie asleep forever. Moreover, there are other powers in this world, powers that would steal away your soul and make you a minion in their order. Do not let them prevail. You say that you are your own man; you must act the part! Hire me as your assistant, Findur. I have searched for you for three hundred years, and I can teach you things that you have hardly fathomed. I can help you unbury the skills you do not even know you possess."

Findur was silent for a long time. He wanted to believe these fair words. He wanted to take this man into his service and uncover the secrets that lay beneath his skin. He wanted to stop running. His thoughts branched into visions of Middle-earth as it should be, and he envisioned the humble caverns of Thranduil transformed into the majesty of Menegroth. No longer idle dreams; this could really be—the glory of Doriath and Nargothrond, Gondolin and Eregion, restored. Curuan's words kindled his heart, and he found himself hungry to create something, to build this wondrous new world.

"All right," he said, his eyes blazing with a long-dormant light. "Tomorrow I'll speak with Thranduil and see what I can do."

  


When Findur returned, he found Liniel sitting alone in a chair by the fire, her eyes starring vacantly down at a silver ring that she held between her thumb and her forefinger. She was still wearing her cloak, the gray fabric falling in folds about her shoulders. Findur watched her with concern as he took off his own cloak and hung it on a peg beside the door, trying to discern the source of the melancholy that dulled her face. "What's wrong, darling?" he asked gently as he went to sit down in an adjacent chair.

Liniel stood suddenly, slipping the ring into her pocket. "Morfindel!" she exclaimed, using the old name out of habit. "I—I didn't see you there." Her face was still impassive, her hands worrying the folds of her cloak, but presently she looked up. "I must talk to you. You've been hiding something from me."

Findur froze. His jaw was slack; his arms limp at his sides. No. She couldn't mean... But how had she found out? The letter was secreted. Curuan had no reason to tell her, and the frail man could not possibly have arrived at the house before him.

"How do you know of this?" he demanded. There were so many more productive things to say—words of apology, vows of devotion—but he could not break his thoughts away from this central puzzle.

Liniel smiled sweetly. She was mocking his distress! His eyes narrowed as she playfully shook her head at him and turned to the nearby table, picking up a piece of parchment. His limbs became numb at the mere sight of the document in her hands. "You were quite careless with this, Findur," she said. A bitterness seemed to enter her voice as she spoke his true name. She handed him the parchment.

When he saw the page, Findur exhaled deeply, almost laughing. On the parchment, in his own hand, were sketches of two slim rings. They were unadorned on the exterior, but engraved on the inside rims was a particularly poignant line of the Ainundale. He looked up to Liniel and saw that she did not frown in bitter hatred, but rather in mild annoyance.

"They're wedding rings, aren't they," she said, tilting her head towards him. "You're making us wedding rings."

"It was supposed to be a surprise," Findur replied. He had been planning the rings for months, intending to present them to Liniel on the New Year following their fashioning. "I haven't begun forging them since I've been so busy. Now's your chance to critique them."

Liniel looked at him with a critical eye. "Findur," she said, strains of anger running through her voice, "do you regret that we had no ceremony for our marriage? Is that what this is about?"

"Of course not!" he said, taken aback. "I only thought that we'd both appreciate rings—as symbols of our love. I thought you'd be happy."

Liniel sighed. "I thought that was what made our marriage special," she said as she dropped the draft back onto the table and took off her cloak, hanging it on a peg beside Findur's. Her motions were rapid and jerking; even the manner in which she straightened her braid spoke of her disgruntlement. "That we didn't need meaningless tokens. Our love is written in our hearts."

"Of course it is. I'm not trying to contest that. I only thought—" He shook his head suddenly, waving his hand as if to brush the topic away. "Never mind. If you don't want a ring, I won't make them!"

His wife's eyebrows arched. "Don't tell me 'never mind'. You have that look on your face, like someone has built a brick wall around you." Findur suddenly became conscious of the scowl on his face and his furled brow, and he attempted to smooth these features. It unnerved him to think that Liniel could read him so well.

"It's nothing. Nothing's wrong."

She gave him a skeptical look. "Nothing's _ever_ wrong, Findur."

"All right," he amended. "It bothers me that I went to this trouble, and suddenly by chance you find out and decide, no, we shouldn't have rings, citing reasons that I don't entirely understand. But I won't argue with you about this, as much as I'm sure you'd like to."

"What exactly are you implying?"

"All of our conversations center on disputes, Liniel. You thrive off it! It's as if the world is nothing but a battle of wits to you. You're as cunning and manipulative as possible, whatever it takes to win."

"That's ludicrous," she retorted. "Why must you take everything so seriously? There's nothing wrong with a good-humored argument! Or would you rather have your women complacent? Is that the way of the fair folk of Imladris?"

Findur stared at her in shock, willing himself not to throw back an even more vicious insult. "How can you talk like that? You know I'm not like that. Let's just end this before we injure each other with so many meaningless words of condemnation."

Liniel closed her eyes briefly. "You're right. This is ridiculous," she said after a time. "Forgive me. Not that it was solely my fault," she pointed out with a raised eyebrow, "but I have been irritable of late." She motioned for him to follow her back to the kitchen. "Come and tell me about your day while I see if my baking is done."

Findur nodded and complied. As they spoke, his mind suddenly returned to the silver ring he had seen Liniel holding. He tried to remember where or when she had gotten it, but he could not recall ever having seen it before.

"Where did you—" he began, but at that moment Liniel set down some carrots and a knife in front of him.

"Cut these, will you? One of my loaves is a bit burnt; I'm trying to salvage it. For once you can make yourself useful."

Findur smirked, made a sly comment about Liniel's baking skills, and began cutting. The matter of the ring left him entirely.

  


"Focus on the candle," Curuan instructed. "Just as we are _fëa_ and _hröa_, there is the physical candle and the candle unseen. It is the unseen that you must picture before you. Immerse yourself in it. Feel its depth, its fabric between your fingers. Now create a flame—realize it, give it substance. You possess the fire within you. All you must do is to transform it into substantial flame."

Findur stared blankly at the cylindrical candle on the dusty table before him. Like all elves, the world of the spiritual was not entirely unknown to him, but only on an instinctive level. Intuition and unspoken words were one thing—but to consciously enter into this realm of his psyche and transform a mental fire into a substantial one? This was nothing like the conventional tricks of moonrunes and lamps; it was something different, something fundamental.

The candlewick did not show the least sign of burning.

He looked up at Curuan. "I don't think it's working."

The old man sighed. "You're trying too hard. You're concentrating with your mind. This ability lies deeper than conscious, physical thoughts. You have to find your intangible 'muscles', so to speak."

"And how am I supposed to do that?"

Curuan paused, phrasing his answer. "Relax. Let your thoughts take on a dreamlike quality. Now concentrate on the candle again, but don't strain yourself."

Findur returned his attention to the candle. He was still under the impression that this whole exercise was insane. Nevertheless, he continued to stare at the candle, letting himself fall into a sleepy, trance-like state. It was difficult to concentrate on anything in this condition, but inevitably, an image of red-orange flames slid into his mind's eye. _Yes_, he thought dimly. _Now I just have to... _But words failed him, and he went back to observing the flame. The fire was growing, expanding outward and filling the world with light. Vaguely superimposed on the scene was the candle before him. He found himself prodding the fire in that direction, an action that, in this strange state of mind, seemed as commonplace as creating sparks with a piece of flint...

"Very good!" Curuan's voice startled Findur back to reality. He found himself breathing heavily, his brow moist. His eyes darted about the room, first resting on Curuan's broken grin, then the familiar clutter of the forge, then finally on the candle before him.

The candle. It was really burning, the small orange flame dancing upon the colorless wick. Findur stared in amazement, a grin slowly lighting up his face. "I did this?" he asked, looking up at Curuan. He found that his voice was animated and slightly high-pitched, reminiscent of the enthusiastic young smith of Imladris.

"Naturally. Excellent work. To tell the truth, I wasn't certain that you'd possess such creative powers. Elves may have a limited ability to sub-create independent of any outside help, but most wouldn't dream of doing what you just accomplished." Curuan stood and extinguished the candle, much to Findur's disappointment. "Go home and rest. We'll practice again tomorrow."

"Can't we try it again now? Just to practice?" Findur knew he was being silly, but the thrill of discovering this new skill with such ease was overwhelmingly delightful.

Curuan only shook his head. "Tomorrow. After all, Liniel is waiting for you at home. You wouldn't want to make her worry, wondering where you are, would you?" Puzzlingly, Findur detected traces of sarcasm in the old man's voice.

  


Thranduil raised his jeweled goblet towards the coffered ceiling. "And therefore," he finished, his voice mighty, "I dedicate twice over this feast to Morfindel, both in light of his accomplishments in the renovation of this hall, and of the wisdom he has demonstrated over the past thirty-one years, and surely will continue to display as a member of my council."

Findur smiled and nodded in thanks as twenty-two glasses rose in his direction. This would have pleased him very much had there not been twenty-three guests, excluding himself, at the table. Only two seats away from him, prince Lórimir sat stern-faced, his glass untouched. From the time that Lórimir had returned permanently to Thranduil's halls in order to recuperate from a serious leg injury, a growing enmity had developed between the two of them. Lórimir had convinced himself that Findur's attainment of the favor of the king somehow threatened both himself and the security of Greenwood, and he lately opposed nearly all of Findur's suggestions or projects. For instance, he had been vocally against the renovation of the banquet hall, condemning it as costly, time-consuming, and unnecessary. Still, Findur had hardly expected him to take such subversive action: to refuse a toast was not only offensive to Findur, but also to the king, who had proposed the said toast. Indeed, Findur noticed Thranduil glaring unkindly at his son out of the corner of his eye.

"And I will in turn drink to you, my king, in appreciation for your gracious—though much embellished—words." Findur raised his glass and took a long drink of the sweet wine.

Lórimir openly scowled.

The rest of the meal was an entourage of brainstorms, proposals, and plans, from strategies on how to develop Greenwood's economy to Findur's plans for the decorative features of the interior garden that was being constructed within the halls. Findur had countless suggestions, all of which Thranduil took with the air of a child who had received an exquisite toy from a doting grandmother.

"It's ingenious! Novel, but absolutely brilliant!" he exclaimed after Findur outlined his plans for the introduction of cash currency to Greenwood, a conversion that would expand trade and bring wealth to the capital. Naturally, Lórimir spoke against nearly everything that Findur proposed: the gardens were expensive and unnecessary in an area of such natural beauty. Coinage was fine, but wasn't he overemphasizing the importance of material possessions? Wouldn't increased trade bring significant cultural change into a region that had always retained its unique identity and peaceful ways? Most strongly objected to was Findur's practical resolution to increase the king's armory, which was hopelessly undersupplied.

"A kingdom that expects war will find it," Lórimir argued. "Let us use our resources to forge tools of peace and prepare for war if it comes."

Findur laughed scornfully. "Ah, naturally the enemy will be polite and give us enough time to restock our armory before attacking. Don't you see, it's that kind of thinking that ruined the Silvan elves in the Last Alliance! You—we—were not prepared, and we suffered terrible losses. We cannot slumber while there are still malevolent forces in the world. Greenwood must be strong enough to overcome whatever challenges it might face."

"I do not deny that evil still rests in Middle-earth. But perhaps it is closer than we think." Lórimir looked down, collecting his thoughts, his lips pursed. Then, he looked up again, his eyes burning with some impossible light, intimations of zeal and of empathy. "You speak of darkness. But maybe it is the demons that reside within these walls that are the most lethal." And he would say no more. It was only after the banquet, when Findur was readying to leave, that Lórimir approached him, leading him away from Liniel's side to a secluded corner of the room.

"My words touched you tonight," he observed. "A darkness passed through your eyes. You know of what I speak."

"I know far better than you," Findur growled. "Do not pretend to know my heart, Lórimir. I will not be your effigy, to burn for the evils of progress."

"And I will not stand by and watch you destroy everything that my forefathers have built. You may have won my father over with your sparkling jewels and sweet tongue, but you cannot deceive every ear so easily. I will entreat with you now to change your ways, to renounce this vain struggle for glory. You say that you make Greenwood strong, but I tell you truly, with every monument erected and every sword forged, this kingdom is one day closer to its collapse."

"Why are you so afraid of change?"

"You misunderstand me. Change is inevitable, and it can be good. What I fear is your attempts to remold the face of the people of Greenwood itself. We will lose ourselves in this folly. We will become no more than the halls that we construct, the great deeds that we perform. Our spirit will die. Tonight we feasted in halls of stone. Ever before, our summer banquets have been among the swaying beeches; our songs have risen up to the stars. Soon, the forests will count us as foreigners, and the stars will forget our nightly hymns. All will be lost."

"You have not given me a single clear reason to change my purpose. Why are you talking in riddles?"

Lórimir only shrugged, a sad but graceful smile lighting up his face. "Does it matter? Even if I possessed words of truth, that you might fully understand my mind, you still would not turn from your course." And he turned and left.

  


Findur knew that something was wrong when he came home from the forge to find his front door open. Within, he could hear the din of several loud conversations occurring simultaneously. He hurried inside and closed the door behind him, swatting away the flies that had entered through the doorway and gleaning what information he could from the shouts as he sought to discover the source of the noise.

"Will he be all right?"

It was Liniel's voice that replied. "Of course he will. Now if you please, either get out of my way or help me! Fetch a damp cloth."

"We should have expected this."

"But the water pitcher is empty!"

"Perhaps... but violence? No, no one could have foreseen this."

"Go fill it, then! The pump is behind the house, beside the vegetable garden."

"I'll tell you, though, he has not been quite right since he returned..."

After much stumbling through the darkened hallways, Findur came to his dimly lit bedroom. Here, upon his bed, lay a pasty-faced man, his eyes barely opened. Now Findur saw the cause of the commotion: a wound, shallow but bleeding profusely, scored his bare chest. Liniel knelt beside the bed, dabbing the man's wound with a green ointment. Behind her stood two elves that he recognized: Culril, one of his fellow councilors, and Tatharien, a flighty young woman who had just begun an apprenticeship under him. He wondered at her presence here; he thought that she had been assisting in the building of the new hall tonight. On the other side of the bed stood a flustered man, a mere page by the looks of him, holding a sopping cloth in his hand. Liniel now grabbed the cloth from him and placed it on the wounded man's forehead.

"What happened?" Findur exclaimed.

Liniel looked up at him, unmoved by his show of astonishment. "Rather may I ask where you have been," she said with a touch of annoyance, then turned back to her patient.

He entered the room and knelt beside her. "At the forge. I had a lot of work."

Liniel smirked slightly, her gray eyes regarding him with a hint of amusement. "Honestly, my dear, you are the only man alive who could miss a riot."

"A _riot_? What happened? Who was involved?"

"Lórimir and his supporters, it seems. They went to the site of the new construction, and apparently a sort of verbal sparring match began. Things got out of hand from there. Someone from one side threatened the other—not really meaning it of course, but the guards got involved, and soon enough, chaos broke out."

She turned her attention back to her patient, who was blinking and groaning, awakening from his stupor. "How are you feeling?" Liniel asked him. She smeared the excess ointment on a spare cloth, took a pile of gauze and bandages from the bedside table, and began to wrap the wound.

"Better," the man murmured.

"Good. You will be fine, then. At the onset, you were in shock from the blood loss, but you needn't worry now. It's a superficial wound."

"Why are you tending this man?" asked Findur. "You're certainly qualified, but why not a medic?"

Liniel laughed hoarsely. For the first time, Findur observed the dark lines beneath her eyes. What time was it, anyway? He had been working late and had lost track of the hour entirely. He peered out the window, trying to glean the hour from the position of the stars, but a thick shroud of low clouds, the herald of yet another summer thunderstorm, obscured the night sky.

"I'm afraid that Sûlómin here is the least of the medics' problems," said Liniel. "A man is dead, and another is near death."

Was she serious? Could an elf of Greenwood have knowingly inflicted another's death? It was absurd; all of it seemed beyond the realm of possibility. "Who—" he began.

"No one knows exactly. We're not even sure who delieverd the first blow. Sûlómin and the other injured man are guards, but the dead man was a worker. We're not sure if he was even involved in the fight. His death is being attributed to Lórimir's party; the guards are well versed in caution, unlikely perpetrators of an accidental death. Even if such an accident were possible, no one has come forward. They'll not be punished; the king sees no reason that they would hold back information."

"What have they done with Lórimir?"

Culril began to speak, but Tatharien broke in with an animated account of the dissenters' fates. "Lórimir, and those of his supporters whom they had the good fortune of catching, are in the prisons. They will be in there for quite a long time, by the looks of it. Charges of murder and sedition. Murder! Who could believe it!"

"I only hope that prison is enough," Findur remarked.

"What do you mean?" asked Culril, considerably more reserved than Findur's easily excitable apprentice.

"You say that some of Lórimir's followers have escaped. Even with their leader incarcerated, they'll continue to wreak havoc. Lórimir is a symbol to these people. A dangerous one."

"What are you suggesting?"

Findur did not reply. He stood and paced the room a few times, idly observing the items scattered about the room: a hairbrush, a box of paints, a block of beech wood that he had whittled into a miniature of the original tree. What exactly _was_ he suggesting? He looked down at his hands, then up at Liniel. "I'll make up the lounge in the front room for sleep. If you would like, I can watch him while you get some rest, and wake you if anything is amiss."

Liniel shook her head. She had finished bandaging Sûlómin's wound and had given him a cordial that would ease his pain. Now she stood. "No, thank you, that won't be necessary. He will not require any further tending tonight, only plenty of sleep and minimal strain on the wound." She turned to the three others. "Thank you all for your help. You can go if you would like."

The three elves filed out of the room. Findur hardly noticed them go; his heart was heavy with other matters. Lórimir, a thorn in his side these past four years, would pain him no more. Yet this satisfaction was only accompanied by a greater sense of urgency. He knew not what he feared, but he was certain that this was not the time to be placated by Lórimir's arrest, to be caught off guard.

"I will go to see the king tomorrow," he said aloud. Liniel, busy retrieving extra sheets from a drawer, a task that he had avowed to perform and instantly had forgotten, did not seem to hear him. No matter. He knew his words had not been intended for her ears so much as his own.

  


Thranduil stared down at the unfinished proclamation on his desk. "No," he said quietly. "I will not do that, Morfindel. I cannot kill my son."

"It is difficult, I understand," said Findur. "But not without precedent. Gondolin, you may remember, had the same policy. A man is already dead. Lórimir and his comrades are responsible. As long as they live, they are dangers to the safety of your people. This chaos cannot go on." With a flash of inspiration, he picked up the thin golden circlet that lay on the king's desk.

"What are you doing?" Thranduil eyed Findur's movements suspiciously, but he put down the writing brush.

"This was your father's, was it not?" Findur turned the circlet over in his hands, ostensibly inspecting the craft of the metal.

"Yes," Thranduil affirmed. "And if any ill should come to me in later days, it shall go to my daughter, my eldest child. What of it?"

Findur held up the circlet so that it glimmered in the candlelight. "This is what is at stake, my king," he said. "All of your father's dreams, the very existence of the kingdom in Greenwood itself. The strife that Lórimir has introduced after so many years of peace will put this circlet, and the kingdom it represents, in jeopardy. As king, your first duty is to your people. They, too, are your daughters and sons. You must remember this now more than ever."

Thranduil looked down in contemplation—a mannerism that father and son shared, Findur noted. "What you say is true. And were I a stronger man..." He shook his head, his fists in tight balls on his desk. "I don't know. I just don't know."

"I apologize. I do not mean to press you to an untimely decision. I only wish to advise you of the course that seems prudent to me." Findur rose from his chair. "I will leave and give you time to think."

Thranduil nodded. "Thank you, Findur. You have not offended me, not by any means. I will call for you when I have made my decision."

By nightfall, the proclamation was completed. In black ink, stamped with the mark of Thranduil, the future was clearly stated. Lórimir and three of his followers were to be put to death.

  


When they brought them out, a profound silence fell upon the mass of onlookers. When they did speak, it was in whispers, their lips barely moving, their eyes unwavering from the four captives who were now taking their places before the king and his council, flanked by twice as many guards. In the center of the entourage stood Lórimir, the crown jewel of this herd of rabble.

From his seat next to Thranduil—Queen Selmë normally occupied this place, but she had refused to attend the execution—Findur had an excellent view of the prisoners, especially Lórimir. The prince's face was pale, but he was composed, his head held high and his eyes bright, seemingly devoid of anger or fear. He seemed unaware of the gawking crowd, but they in turn were transfixed at the sight of the young prince-turned-criminal. _How fascinated they are with death!_ Findur thought scornfully, but in truth, his own stomach was churning, and he could not take his eyes of Lórimir. _How does he remain so calm?_ He himself had only experienced death in the hunting of a stag or the childhood sadness at the passing of an elderly, well-loved tamed bird. Not like this at all.

As he and the rest of the council had agreed, the prisoners were allowed a last statement before their deaths. This was the custom in Arnor and Gondor, and they could not think of a better model. After all, there had never before been an execution in Greenwood. There had never been a need.

Another, peculiar institution had also been incorporated—since none of the criminals had yet confessed to the murder, they were given a final chance to "confess your deed and unburden your conscience, so that you may die on good standing with your king and with the Powers of Arda."

No confessions were made. The proceedings were thus unextraordinary, speeches professing the tyranny of the king and the injustice of the execution, speeches plotting imaginary revenge. In their indistinct whispers, the crowd ridiculed the sedition, anticipating with exhilaration and terror the moment when the sentences would be carried out. Then they could exhale and depart, never speaking of this day again, though surely never forgetting it.

When it came time for Lórimir to speak, the silence grew more profound, a tangible weight against Findur's chest that made it difficult to breath properly. Lórimir closed his eyes briefly in meditation. Then the convict looked up at the semi-circle of the King and his council, his gaze passing from face to face. Findur felt indignation rise up within him as Lórimir's blue eyes rested on his own face, lit up with an inexplicably compassionate glow. He opened his mouth, paused. Then in the calmest voice imaginable, Lórimir whispered, "I forgive you."

The silence that ensued was no tormenting weight, but a shocked vacuum. Only gradually did a cacophony of voices rise up in response. I forgive you? What was that? As if _we_ were the criminals, and not him! Shouts and rebuking speeches rang out through the hall. Even Thranduil was visibly shaken, his façade of tired determination melting away to reveal some of the pain beneath. He did nothing to silence the crowd, but only stared down at his hands, neatly folded in his lap, until the noise died away.

And yet, for reasons he could not explain, Findur took comfort from Lórimir's blasphemous words. Not that he regretted his actions thus far: Lórimir and his followers were criminals of the worst sort; a life had been lost through their actions, and they were intent on destroying Greenwood itself. He would be happy to administer the lethal poison himself if need be. Yet, in spite of all this, a part of him responded to the words, moved by a desperate need for forgiveness. _But this is madness! I am no criminal. It is Lórimir who is the guilty one, who has committed unforgivable crimes. He deserves death._

Even as silence returned, a figure rushed into the hall, dispersing the crowd. Findur saw that it was Queen Selmë. She dashed up to the area where Lórimir and the other criminals stood. The guards moved to stop her from approaching Lórimir, but she pushed past them, taking her son's hands in hers.

"My darling," she said. "Oh, Lórimir... I thought I was too late."

"Mother, please. You do not have to be here. You do not have to see this." But Selmë had already turned and approached the king. "Thranduil... do not do this. Do not do this thing, not Lórimir. "Her voice was choked, her eyes red-rimmed and watery. "Our son, Thranduil... he is innocent. Surely you know this. Our son. You cannot..."

Thranduil stood, placing his hands on the queen's shoulders, whispering to her so that only Selmë—and Findur—could hear, "I have no choice. Now go. You shame yourself."

Selmë pushed him away with a cry. Her voice had taken on a high-pitched, frantic tone. "How can you... this is our son, our flesh and blood... Lórimir, our Lórimir... I won't let you make him a scapegoat!" She flung out her arms as she screamed, tears flowing down her cheeks.

"Dearest," Thranduil said in a soft, deliberate voice, "Your son was discovered with a bloody sword."

"So too were the swords of the guards!" Thranduil shook his head. "We must do what is right. You must leave, or at the least control yourself. I know your pain..."

"You? You know... nothing... you murderer! Murderer!"

Thranduil, finding no other recourse, motioned for the two guards at the far door to escort her out. Selmë's limbs writhed in the struggle to escape them, but the guards managed to restrain her, and began the tedious process of leading her out of the hall. The crowd stared in stunned silence. Thranduil did not watch her go. Instead, he beckoned for a third guard. "Follow them," he commanded. "She should not be left alone. You should send for a medic, I think." The guard nodded and went, and Thranduil sat down again, his head in his hands as if in deep thought, but his eyes stared blankly ahead.

"You are doing the right thing," Findur told him.

The king nodded as he stood and stepped forward. In a loud, regal voice, he said, "You have been found guilty of murder and sedition. These crimes are unjustifiable and unforgivable. Now we demand of you the greatest thing a man has to offer—his life."

It was with those chilling words that Findur realized the truth: up until now, the proceedings had been nothing but mere fanfare. He watched as a guard approached the prisoners, bearing a golden chalice. The draught within would provide the convicts with a quick, painless death.

The prelude had ended. Now, the execution began.

* * *

Selmë - another pseudo-Silvan name. 

1. Elves probably have pointed ears. I vote yes for the purposes of this story.


	10. Arwen

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.  
**Timeline:** T.A. 252  
**Rating (this chapter):** PG

**Shadow Child  
Chapter X: Arwen**

Seven years later, the night that he nearly burned his shop down, Findur was the recepient of an altogether unexpected proposition.

"Lost in thought?" asked Curuan wryly as he watched Findur stamp out the last of the flames from a greasy cloth that, too close to the forge, had caught fire and would have sent the whole place into flames had not Findur, snapping out of his reverie, apprehended it.

"In a manner of speaking," said Findur, falling back into his seat with a sigh. He put out the fire of the forge; the helm he had been shaping, left untended, had disfigured and would have to be reformed. "Tatharien leaves tomorrow; you know. Her parents wish to depart to the West, and she will follow them. Her tutelage was almost complete. I suppose she will ply her trade on the Lonely Isle, if iron or gem are found at all in that green land."

"Your words are well wrought," Curuan observed.

"Why should they be otherwise? I am not a child."

"I did not say you were. Go on."

"If you insist," said Findur. "But my words will be nothing new. I've been master smith of this realm for forty-two years, and in all that time, our people have hardly increased. The number of births is only a little greater than the number of departures. Nothing changes, only stagnates and grows old with time. What has happened to the proud spirit of our people, Curuan? I fear that this land will soon be forsaken, only to be inherited by mortals: mere children indeed, whose lives are brief whispers next to ours. Is there nothing we can do to halt this decline?"

"More exactly, is there nothing _you_ can do to halt it, you mean."

"Well, why not? Why shouldn't it be me? I seem to be the only one who's even aware of the problem. But what could I possibly do?"

"Very little presently," said Curuan. "But there are some items in this world that hold such power as you seek."

Findur laughed. "What, the Rings of Power? Maybe if I go to Imladris and ask nicely, they'll lend me one. And don't," he added, giving Curuan a stern glance, "think that I can make such an item. I may have the skill, but that sort of craft requires, well, the proper tutelage."

"I was not speaking of the Rings. Come now, it should be apparent. It's a family heirloom of yours, isn't it?"

Findur raised his eyebrows. "Do you mean... the Elessar? The second stone that Celebrimbor made for my mother?" He paused. "My mother... she gave it to my sister before she left." His eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute. Are you suggesting that I _steal_ the Elessar?"

"Or you could ask nicely."

"Well... they don't need it," Findur admitted. "Its powers are unfocused and highly limited, and Imladris already has the blessings of two Rings of Power. It would make a difference, here, though. It's said to have great powers of healing and renewal. But I can't—I can't just—"

"Why not? Others have. Look at the Silmarils."

"That's hardly a comforting precedent."

"You have learned nothing if that is your only response. Holy gems, Findur, if you'll remember your mythology. The rightful property of the sons of Fëanor. Seized at last—with more force than you'll need to apply, of course—and then cast away, without reason, out of a self-imposed guilt. Why should you be subject to the little fears of a craven heart? Think, if they had not cast away. Imagine that unbroken light, the crowning star not of heaven, but of earth."

"I'll have to think about it," said Findur. "Naturally. Just remember, Findur: utilitarianism." And with that, Curuan hobbled out of the room, leaving Findur to salvage the broken helm.

Before he attended this task, Findur sat alone for a few minutes, pondering the influence that the presence of the Elessar could have on Thranduil's realm. Yet he found it hard to concentrate; his thoughts were continuously straying. In his mind's eye, he saw a flash of silver hair, heard a burst of chiming laughter, felt the warm summer sun cast its light upon the green valley as they walked together down the tree-lined path.

How he missed Celebrían.

  


That night as they were readying for bed, Liniel asked the inevitable question. She was sprawled upon the bed, already clothed in a loose linen gown, and watched him behind half-closed eyes as he pulled on garments for sleep.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, returning her smirk with a gentler smile.

"Oh," Liniel replied languidly, "just considering how to paint you tomorrow." She had been in an art craze all week, returning to her brushes and canvases with unusual fervor. "Maybe I'll come into the shop tomorrow afternoon. The light of the forge illuminates your face wonderfully."

Findur bit his lip. Curuan would be present the next afternoon, and their conversation would likely cross into areas that Liniel had better not hear.

"By the way," Liniel added, as if on cue, "you never did tell me why you were late for dinner tonight. What kept you?"

Findur did not hesitate. "I was speaking with the king about taking a leave of absence," he explained. "I'd like to go down to Khazad-dûm, study some new techniques."

"How long will you be gone?" A touch of concern filtered through in Liniel's voice. She sat up, drawing up her knees against her chest.

"Ten weeks, I think." On horseback and under fair conditions, it would take a month to reach Imladris, but the slightest bit of trouble in his descent over the mountains would significantly increase that time. "I know we've never been apart for that long. But it will pass quickly."

Liniel shook her head, as if to say that time apart was the least of her worries. Then she rose and went to the overflowing shelves that lined the wall opposite them, stacked with her many books—some filled with songs of power, others with the lore of growing things—as well as dried herbs and bottled draughts. When she returned, she was holding a clear glass phial filled with later.

"I know you probably won't need this," she said, handing it to him, "but I thought I should give it to you anyway."

Findur peered at the phial, trying to discern its use.

"It contains water from my mother's river," said Liniel. "A weapon that's a bit less... messy... than a sword."

Findur smiled thinly. "This is thoughtful of you, but what trouble could I possibly run into?" In fact, this phial might prove most useful during his journey, but he could not fathom how Liniel's intuition was so keen as to apprehend this. True, the occasional band of Orcs passed near Khazad-dûm, but the roads were protected by Arnor and Khazad-dˆm alike.

"Of course, you're right," said Liniel. "I'm only being overcautious."

Findur gave her what was meant to be a reassuring kiss. "Thank you for worrying about me," he said. "But I assure you it's not necessary."

"Of course," said Liniel. She cast her eyes down reflectively, and, for a moment, it was as if he looked at her through a veil, transparent but impenetrable.

Then she looked up, her gaze resolving to a placid expression. "Findur," she said, her voice an affirmation, and she placed a firm hand on his shoulder, as if to verify that he was really there beside her. Her hand was small against his broad shoulder, firm with countless years of heavy smith work, but her grip was surprisingly powerful. And the veil was lifted.

  


Though two hundred years had passed, Imladris was as serenely beautiful as ever. In the unexpected brightness of the late afternoon sun, its rising slopes and untamed meadows glowed with vitality. Findur noticed all this subliminally as he stepped lightly across the stone bridge that connected the steep wooded slopes in the east of the valley to the flatter land upon which Elrond's mansions were situated. Beneath him, swift waters rushed over jagged rocks, a cacophony further augmented by the many streams and cataracts that fed into the river.

Rather than inspiring awe, the valley's majesty only made him feel conspicuous, even under the cover of a gray cloak of Liniel's weaving, the well-knit cloth intended to blend in with its surroundings. But his reason told him that elven eyes were keen both in daylight and darkness, and that the valley would be more heavily guarded in the night. He had, in fact, purposely chosen this hour to descend into Imladris; most of its inhabitants would be dining within. It was unlikely that he would be spotted.

As he reached the opposite end of the bridge and, in a stooping position, began to make his way up to the side of the house, he did not really try to avoid these artificial worries. It would do no good to think of his real fears, for against these, he had no defense. He was most concerned about the vigilance of the Rings of Power over the valley. Because of these, he must hurry in his task before he was detected, or at least before he was caught. Equally daunting was the thought of seeing someone who knew him. What, for instance, would happen if Celebrían came across him as he searched her room for the stone? Even if he managed to escape, it was not a meeting that would be easily borne.

But no thoughts of that now. He had reached the terraced gardens that grew outside his sister's room. His mother once had tended it, but after her departure, Celebrían herself had taken it up. He marveled at how little its landscape had changed over the years, the orderly rows bordered by green hedges and overflowing with multicolor blooms, occasionally shaded by a petite dogwood or poplar tree. How different it was from the sprawl of Liniel's garden, the latter a vibrant wilderness extending from the well to the far vegetable patch, the whole of it virtually unnavigable unless one knew where to step.

_Focus_, Findur reminded himself. He crept up through the garden towards Celebrían's window, lurking under the poor cover of the hedges. Approaching the window, he studied its design quickly and found it unaltered, two panes of glass fastened from the inside with a metal latch. Easy enough to force. He straightened up and was about to do so when he blinked and realized what he was seeing.

The room within was changed. A modest bed rested on the wall opposite the place where Celebrían's had been, a long table with a basin and mirror beside it. That was all. There were no personal articles of any kind. All that remained of its former contents were a few trinket shelves attached to the wall, now bare.

Findur was so startled that he did not hear the bright, clear melody of a voice behind him, minute approaching footfalls accompanying the song.

  


Well, this was just wonderful. Only a half-hour into his expedition, and he had already been apprehended. By a child, no less! It would have been laughable had he not been in such peril.

Her name was Arwen, and she had lost a toy in this very garden. She understood that he was a stranger, but if he wasn't too busy, could he help her look for it? She would have asked her parents for help, but, she had confided, she wasn't supposed to take this particular toy—a small wooden bird, more of a trinket than a plaything, really—outside of the house, and she didn't want them to know she had both broken the rule and proven its necessity.

For reasons that were presently unclear to him—a way to make her leave as quickly as possible? A subliminal undercurrent of self-destructiveness?—he had agreed to help her and was at this very moment combing through a clump of artemesia, hoping that she wouldn't ask another difficult question.

Ah, the questions. First, she had asked him for a name. After an overlong pause, he had replied with "Culril", filching the name of his fellow councilmember. From there, the torrent of questions continued: why are you here? Where are you from? What's your family like? Do you have children?

_Don't let her make you feel guilty_, he told himself. _You are doing nothing wrong._ Yet how could he not feel guilty with this dark-haired, rosy-cheeked cherub of a little girl asking the mostly terrible, innocent little questions?

At the moment, at least, there was relief, for Arwen had begun to sing again. Her song was a popular children's tune in Imladris, and apparently quite old, for it was in Quenya. His own mother had sung it to him when he was a child. Now that he reflected on it, the song must have remained unsung for thousands of years, only being revived when an atmosphere had arisen in which the culture and language of the Noldor were not held in contempt. So Arwen was the product of this atmosphere, her little voice rising and falling like the piping of a songbird. The Quenya was pronounced clumsily, the sounds shaped more like those of Sindarin, but it only added to the charm of the simple tune:

"Dance all ye joyful, now dance all together.  
Soft is the grass, and let foot be like feather.  
The river is silver, the shadows are fleeting.  
Merry is my heart, and merry our meeting." (1)

And so she rambled on, crouching down amongst the blossoms, and Findur knelt beside her, searching half-heartedly in spite of his need for haste, when Arwen cried out, "Here it is!"

Triumphantly, she held up the item in question, a small wooden carving of a bird in flight, and handed it to him so that he might examine the trophy. Findur felt his mouth go dry. Numbly, he took the carving, staring at it all the time. He knew this carving, though his recollections were drawn from a time long past and a world away. It was the bird he had carved long ago, the week his mother had been called to the Gray Havens and received the tidings that had broken his own heart and saved hers from despair, gifted to his sister in a moment of haste and carefree jollity.

"Arwen," he heard himself asking with sudden fervor, "Where did you get this thing?"

Arwen scrunched her nose at the peculiar question. "My mother. I saw it on a shelf and I thought it was pretty. And Mother asked if I wanted it and I said yes. So she gave it to me. Why?"

"Your mother," he started again. "Your mother... is Celebrían?"

Arwen nodded.

Then this girl, this white-souled jewel of a child... was his niece.

At first, he could not think of anything to say. But soon enough, a query came to mind, and out flooded the thousand questions that he had no right to ask, not at a time like this.

"Then your father is Elrond?" he began tentatively.

Arwen smiled, gray eyes glimmering. "Of course!"

Now everything became clear, why his sister's old room was vacant. And he thought, _She was married, and I was not there to see it._

"How are your parents?" he asked eagerly, then adding by way of explanation, "I once knew them well, but I did not know that you were their daughter."

"They're well," Arwen replied perfunctorily, as if they could never be otherwise.

"Do... do you have any brothers or sisters?"

Arwen nodded in the affirmative. "Elladan and Elrohir. My older brothers. They're twins."

"How old are they?" Findur pressed.

Arwen thought for a moment. "One hundred and thirty... two." With this number fresh in her mind, she gave Findur a strange look. "You know my parents? You can't have seen them for a very long time."

"No. No, I have not." _And now I return to them as a liar and a thief! This isn't right, can't be right. Not here. Not like this. How can I cheat my own sister thus? How can I lie to this girl, her daughter?_

Yet he could lie, couldn't he. Or at least he had been able to, once. Now, though, his reason was slipping away, and he was telling her things that his good sense rebelled against: "That carving, it was I who made it. I gave it to your mother many years ago."

Arwen looked at him with wrinkled brow. "But Mother said her brother made it..."

Before Findur could attempt to reconcile these two statements, the sound of footfalls announced another's entrance into the garden. And a few moments later, a powerful but distant voice: "Arwen! Come, it's suppertime!"

Must leave. What else: _I'm home, Celebrían; miss me? Mind if I steal a jewel or two?_ But this was not home. This was thievery, and thieves did not steal from their own households.

Must leave, and yet he remained, as if to test his limits. How long could he linger without being found out? Arwen, distracted by her mother's call, turned her head towards the sound of Celebrían's voice, but she too remained in place. Findur's heartbeat sped up with each reverberation of slipper against stone. There, in the distance, was that a figure, tall and swanlike between the rows of flowers, a silver crown of hair falling haphazardly about two blue eyes? Blue eyes: like the piercing reflection looking up at him from the depths of the mere, blue eyes that bespoke death, departure, his mother's clear blue eyes...

Arwen's head was still turned away when he wheeled and bolted. He ran down through the gardens, past the house and across the stone bridge that arched above the white-gray cascade of the river, the setting sun throwing a long shadow before him. His ears were engulfed by the rush of a wind that was not wind at all, but still air overtaken by a moving body. By the constant flooding of the river beneath him. And, if he listened carefully enough, by a small voice that nevertheless cut through the waters and the wind and the thudding heart, or perhaps was a product of the three: Where are you going? Don't go. Why are you leaving? Stay with me.

_The river is silver, the shadows are fleeting; merry is my heart, and merry our meeting..._

Across the bridge and up into the steep hills that rose in the east. Above, the sky was dusty gray with tints of violet, untouched by the reddish light that still flooded into the valley below. The crowding trees were a comfort after the open valley. Here, he was hidden from curious eyes, could not be seen for what he was.

_Perhaps this is a sign_, he thought whimsically, although he did not believe it was anything of the sort. _A warning: "though you have been granted innumerable years for reasons high and absurd, do not take your existence for granted! Do not overstep your place! Remember who you are, who you steal from. Steal for. The Elven people? Regard the contradiction inherent in the ostensible. But what else? A shadow in the night?_

_I am a good person. I am successful. I have idealistic goals and realistic methods of attaining them. My wife loves me. I have given her peace of mind. And a barren womb._

He continued to ascend the hills, setting his mind on the moment that he would reach the edge of the valley and the world would be his again. Just another hill, another cluster of jagged rock and dense greenery. Another and another. Night setting on, and the woods were curiously alive, a pulsing creature that wheeled about the cold machine of his perpetual up, up, up. Just another minute, and then freedom.

There, there it was: the gratifying green expanse, the vast purple sky lit with the beginnings of silver stars, the silhouette of mountains rising up in the east. Dizzily, he perched on this last hill and sent out his senses to drink up his surroundings: the sliver of watery moonlight, the high-pitched symphony of nocturnal insects, the crisp, summer scents of grass and cool night air.

That was when he felt the points digging into the calluses of his clenched fist, sharp like a reminder. He stretched out his hand and opened it, hesitantly, afraid to confirm the definite. There lay the little winged carving, clumsily fashioned but burnished like bronze.

He had stolen something from Imladris after all.

* * *

1. Adapted from "The Last Stage", _The Hobbit_. The reason for the change from "May-time" to "my heart": according to my pretense that the original song was from Valinor, it therefore was written in the time before the Sun and Moon. Therefore, months didn't exist, since they didn't use a sun and moon-based calendar. So the original Quenya version couldn't very well have said "May-time".


	11. Departure

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.  
**Timeline:** T.A. 252  
**Rating (this chapter):** PG-13. Violence, themes of rape.

**Shadow Child  
Chapter XI: Departure**

_ar sindanóriello caita mornië  
i falmalinnar imbë met, ar hísië  
untúpa Calaciryo míri oialë._

Well, it was over now.

Slumped over on a stiff, high-backed chair in his bedroom in Greenwood, Findur considered this sudden realization. He straightened up suddenly. Yes, over now. And now, he was aware of his weaknesses, his incapacity to hold to his principles in the face of adversity. Viewed in this light, the entire unpleasant ordeal seemed positively worthwhile.

And it had been unpleasant, there was no denying that. No single event stood out in his mind when he looked back on his departure from Imladris, only one bleak, endless moment after another. He hadn't slept for the first days of his journey, had not even been able to rest his mind while walking. Perhaps there had been nothing to rest; everything had been emotion, jagged images and shaking hands. Loss and terror and confusion. It had been too much to hold in, to lock quietly away as usual. There had been no overt displays of grief; weeping was a token of childhood that Findur was glad to have left behind. But within... ah, that was a different story.

Days had become weeks, and the clenching emotions had faded, vanquished by his returning sensibilities. Painful memories were reinterpreted. Childish sentiments were reconciled with rational truths. Finally, he was able to make sense of his ridiculous actions in Imladris. For instance, his regret of being absent for so much of his sister's life: a natural sentiment, but illogical nonetheless. There was no place for him in Imladris. As for his sudden misgivings when it came to his plan to take the Elessar, these were understandable as well, but wholly contrived. Nothing but a reaction to Arwen's presence. He had begun judging himself by the morals of Imladris, by Celebrían's morals, rather than his own. So petty. Curuan would not be pleased.

Reevaluating these events in his head, he nodded slowly to himself. Yes. It was over, and he needn't worry about it anymore. It wouldn't happen again.

Findur stood and glanced out the window. The summer sun filtered through a thin layer of clouds, marking the hour around noon. Liniel, apparently off on some errand, was not home.

It was time to go.

  


Rather than take the shorter route to Curuan's lodgings, Findur ascended a short staircase upon entering the halls and proceeded to the right. Before long, he came to the wide double doors of the banquet hall. A shaft of sunlight cast its rays down before the threshold, illuminating the panels. Here Findur halted, admiring the masterpiece before him. For, in concert with Thranduil's wishes and Findur's own desires, every detail pertaining to the hall was a thing of majesty, the doors not least. On the first panel, an elven maiden danced in a forest, her hair carven of ebony, her dress composed of rubies. In the background, leaf-shaped slivers of emerald dangled from boughs of mahogany, and above the forest shone a sun of burnished gold. To the right, an even more spectacular, if less ornate, scene glimmered: a silver crescent moon, surrounded by inlayed diamonds that perfectly replicated the constellations on the New Year. Beneath the celestial scene sat a fair-haired minstrel boy grasping a silver pipe, his sapphire eyes bright.

Findur recalled the countless hours spent fashioning those jewels into the perfect form, the months spent, with the assistance of the artisans and architects of Greenwood, to finish this hall. Beholding the finished product, he smiled. Impulsively—for he had not meant to linger and delay his meeting with Curuan—he stepped forward and flung open the doors. This was an easy task; though the doors were massive, he and his fellow craftsmen had used their skill to render them light and easily manageable.

Standing in the doorway, the room lit by shafts cut into the ceiling and golden lamps set in alcoves in the wall, Findur took in the splendor of the hall: the ivory floor, the lofty coffered ceiling, the walls of alabaster stone, inlayed with jeweled scenes akin to those upon the door. Ebony molding lined the ceilings and the floor, banded with wide strips of hammered gold. Occasional doors accented the finery, providing access to the kitchen and other parts of the halls, their dark polished wood identical to the hue of the long central banquet table. Findur observed that one of the chairs was missing from the table, then realized, with a start, why this was. Beside the great marble fireplace that dominated the left end of the hall sat King Thranduil. In marveling at the room, Findur had not even noticed his presence.

Thranduil's frame was bent over a book, but his eyes, though downcast, were clearly not focused on the page. The small fire that constantly burned in the fireplace illuminated his face, exaggerating the sunken eyes and creased brow that had so often characterized his appearance in the years since Queen Selm's departure from Greenwood. A sudden flicker of light brought forth another detail—a golden circlet banded the king's pale locks, an ornament that, customarily, was reserved for the highest occasions.

Findur stepped forward from the doorway. "My lord," he called.

Thranduil turned and straightened up, a semblance of a smile creasing his tired eyes. He closed his book. "Morfindel!" he greeted. "So you have returned. I trust your time in Khazad-dûm was well spent?" Seeing a hint of distress on Findur's face, he hurried on, "Oh, I am not expecting anything from you. Only that you have enjoyed your expedition for its own merit. You have well deserved a retreat from your duties."

Findur walked to the fireplace, smiling a little. "Your praise is much appreciated, my lord, however little it is deserved."

Thranduil shook his head. "No need for modesty, my friend. And if you have come here for no reason other than to gaze upon this hall, I can hardly fault you. Any artist likes to see his own handiwork."

"It is exquisite," Findur admitted, then added quickly, "but I could never have produced it on my own." He paused briefly, but before Thranduil could reply and send Findur off on an egocentric tangent, he asked, "Do you come here often?"

"Ah, from time to time," Thranduil replied. "It is a pleasant place, to read, to think... Mostly, I think." His head turned towards the fire, and Findur saw all the soft lines of his face illuminated. "Many thoughts I have pondered of late, and few of them have been fair." He exhaled deeply.

"I have been growing tired, Morfindel, so tired. Middle-earth, it has always been my home, and I, in every way, have cherished it. I love the forests, the light through the trees, sunlight and starlight. I love the rivers, the tall, woven meadows. Many times, when others sought escape, to set sail, to flee, I fought, only fought the harder. But now... my heart grows weary. Alas, these woods grow more beautiful with each passing year. With the building of great halls like this one. But they are not set here for me."

As he spoke, Findur's eyes went wide with disbelief. "You can't mean..."

Thranduil waved his words away with a bent hand. "I have said what I have said. It is not really important. What worries me... my daughter, Ithreth. She says she will remain in Greenwood. Believes it, I think. But I see her, see her eyes, her longing. She thinks of her mother often. Of her younger brother. You know how she was when Selmë decided to leave. Wouldn't talk to either of us for a fortnight. Wonders now about going to see them, in Belfalas. And why should she not? _Why should she not?_" The orange flames danced in the light of his eyes, overtaking the soft gray irises. But his next words were subdued, breathless. "If she will not... if she leaves... if she cannot take my place... if..." He looked up intently at Findur.

Findur blinked, feeling vaguely dizzy.

"Morfindel," the king continued. "I trust you, more than any other member of my council. If Ithreth will not succeed—"

"Let us speak no more of this!" Findur's harsh exclamation cut through Thranduil's words, and the king paused, then nodded, the light fading from his eyes.

"If you wish," he said. "No more. Yes, no more. I, I was speaking of conjecture. Nothing to be heeded. Madness. I hope I haven't worried you."

Findur shook his head. "Don't think of it." He smiled, awkwardly but, he hoped, reassuringly. Then he turned to the door. "It was good speaking to you. I must go now; I came here to discuss some things with Curuan."

"Ah." Thranduil nodded. "The Man." Findur managed to find amusement in this statement; forty-two years, and according to the people of Greenwood, Thranduil included, Curuan was yet "the Man". An elderly Númenorean was the prevalent opinion. Curuan had never made his reasons for concealing his race clear, and Findur sometimes wondered about the troubles his assistant would face when his immortal nature started raising questions.

"While you're speaking with him," Thranduil added suddenly, "you might say hello to your wife. I saw her walking to his rooms only an hour ago." He smiled. "This is the third time she's visited him in the past two weeks. In hindsight, I hope that I haven't uncovered some, oh, birthday conspiracy."

"Quite possibly," Findur replied, though he did not celebrate his birthday. "It's strange, though... Liniel's never shown the least bit of interest in Curuan. And I can't think what she'd ask him to make for me." He shrugged, his outer nonchalance admittedly a contrast to the perplexity within. "I suppose I'll find out." He nodded to Thranduil in parting. "Enjoy your book, my lord."

  


At first, he could not name it. It was nothing but the vaguest of sensations, as inexplicable as it was pervasive. The feeling that things were just not right. As Findur walked down the poorly lit corridor, his footsteps lightly punctuating the voices that drifted towards him, he tried to pinpoint the source of his discomfort. What was so wrong, that would prompt such foreboding? What was so different?

Then he comprehended. This passageway, a narrow, unadorned tunnel that was far from the central corridors of the halls, was normally silent. Now it resounded with voices, and the strangest voices, at that. He was only half listening to Liniel and Curuan's conversation, but the very sound of it unnerved him: the low, smooth tones of Liniel's voice against Curuan's hoarse, grating responses. Unreal, to hear their voices joined in such natural dialogue. Without meaning to, Findur began listening to the content of their conversation.

"Please, let's not idly speculate," he heard Liniel say.

"Idly! Really now, Liniel, I can think of no better employment of our time. He's holding himself back, you know. Troubling himself with ridiculous notions. You can surely find no fault in keeping this in mind."

Findur halted at the door to Curuan's chambers, his hand frozen over the doorknob.

"He'll be fine." Liniel's voice was unusually terse.

"Of course! Utmost confidence, as always. He is your husband, after all." Liniel did not reply. "He's at a perilous point. We cannot be sure that he'll manage himself properly."

"If you're so certain that he's made a fool of himself in Imladris, you should have waited longer before suggesting the journey."

But that was impossible.

A deep sigh. "Think, Liniel: much later, and it would have been too late. Our dear heir is going to be thrown into a difficult situation one of these days. If he's to survive, we must trust him _not_ to make a fool of himself, as my lady so eloquently phrased it. He must be tested!"

Findur's hand trembled as he slowly turned the doorknob. The door opened easily. Curuan and Liniel, revealed like a dream, stood in the center of the room. Their conversation halted. Two faces turned towards him. Their silence destroyed Findur's sense of detachment from this implausible, intangible scene. He had caused the silence. He was part of this. It was real.

He said nothing. Waited to see what they would do next.

After turning and seeing him, Curuan blinked, smirked a little, and turned to Liniel. In a gravelly, perverse attempt at nonchalance: "Well, my dear, I suppose you were right after all. At least he's found his way home."

Liniel did not seem to hear him. Her body was rigid, her face expressionless. She stared at him with empty eyes. "Findur..." she murmured. Too shocked to concoct a story, another lie for him to swallow? He wanted to ask, but found his throat oddly dry.

"Findur," Liniel tried again. To fill the silence. Wasn't that it? He didn't really know, couldn't know, she was nothing, an image, a fabrication...

But it couldn't be.

He stood in the doorway, ambivalent, still. He wanted to shatter her body into a million indefinable pieces. He wanted her to step forward with a suddenly tender gaze—to unfreeze—to say, no, my love, no, it's nothing but a jest, a dream, only a dream.

But her gaze was like ice, just as hard, as cold, as sharp against his skin.

"It was never real," he said. "It was nothing. We were nothing at all."

  


It was cold now. Or perhaps that was only in his mind. Perhaps it was all an illusion: the wind, the house in front of him, the nearby forest, the sound of movement behind him. She was actually following him, with all the persistence of a wolf chasing its prey. Findur's mind latched onto the analogy. Yes, a beast, that was what she was. Or a spider, ensnaring her victims in a twisted web, bestowing her love with a poisoned kiss.

As he walked down to the house, he tried to sort it all out in his mind. It was simple, really. Liniel knew. Liniel had always known. Liniel had married him because...

He saw her bright eyes, her lips curving into "I love you." He shuddered and tried to begin again.

Liniel knew... and Curuan knew... and they confided together. Were what, partners? Comrades in some insane plan to...

Liniel knew.

Liniel.

His beloved.

He stopped, staring blankly at the house before him. He thought he smelled roses, but he could be mistaken. He could be mistaken about so many countless things.

A few moments later, he heard the long grass rustling directly behind him. "Findur," Liniel's voice called, her astonishment replaced by the firmest resolution. Findur found himself turning to face her.

"What is it?" he demanded.

Liniel walked forward. "Listen to me," she said. When he began to turn away, indisposed to listen to her excuses, she placed a firm, restraining hand on his shoulder. "Listen to me. I understand that you are angry. But you must understand... I love you, Findur. I did not intend to hurt you."

He found that he could not look at her face. There was only the outline of her—her tall figure, clad in red, her dark braids. "Love me," he murmured. He wanted to push her hand away but could not.

"I understand your doubts," she continued. "But do not think that this—that my knowing—I've always loved you, Findur."

He shook his head and, finally, shoved her arm away. "Oh, and incidentally, the love of your life is just the man that you wanted to control? What good fortune!"

"It was not like that," Liniel began.

Findur cut her off. "Oh, then what was it? An accident?"

"I did not know..."

"An accident, that you were standing in the woods that day? There are very few roads into Greenwood, you know. It would be a most convenient place to wait for me."

"I did not..."

"Sheer accident that I stayed? I smell it even now... roses. It's soothing. And always there... something fundamental. What is that scent, Liniel? What else have you deceived me about?"

Liniel stared at him. There was something frantic in her eyes. "For love, Findur, will you not listen? How could I have known? How could I do more than suspect, and then only in the deepest recesses of my mind, until you finally revealed to me your true name?"

Findur did not answer for a long time. When he did speak, it was in a whisper. "Suspected. Then you have known all along, in all the ways that really matter." He looked up suddenly. "It was you who told Curuan my identity." It didn't make sense, not really, not when contrasted Curuan's elaborate tale of discovering his letter, but the frustrated gleam in Liniel's eyes told him that he had spoken the truth.

"What of it?" she asked. "He has made you great, and you in turn have made Greenwood great. Our people thrive again."

Facts shifted and sorted themselves out before his eyes. He was doing it again, fooling himself, rearranging his beliefs to compliment his emotions... or maybe this was simply the truth. "No." His voice was coarse, unkind. Good. "Monuments, Liniel you speak of monuments... but they are cold." For a moment, his voice softened, the voice of a child, but he continued sternly: "Is this your paradise? A land where fathers no longer mourn their sons, where the young set aside the memory of their kin? Count the dead! Think of all those departed! Lórimir is gone, Liniel, and Selmë is gone, and I... I won't go on like this. Perhaps you can, your heart numb to all the world, playing your little games... but I..." He shook his head. "It's over."

Liniel's eyes slowly narrowed. "No." The word came faintly, but from here on Liniel's voice swiftly increased in volume, as if to annihilate the boundless silence that his own words had put in place. "No, don't you see what you are doing? It's so very convenient to play the victim, to blame me, to make yourself the righteous one."

"I didn't—"

Now it was Liniel who interrupted. "Don't deny it! Why, I think you rather enjoy it. Why else would you have tortured yourself for so long, thinking of all the wrongs done unto Findur the damned, son of the tormented Lady Galadriel? I know you, Findur, how, when you are too distraught to work, you think of her pain, of what he did to her, of how she must have screamed—"

He slapped her. Not hard enough to injure her, but with a sharp, sudden blow that released all of his rage in one swift motion, leaving a red mark on her face and an empty look in his eyes. Amazingly, Liniel barely responded: only closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths before continuing as if nothing had happened. "I'm not afraid of you."

"Oh, really," he began, but she raised her voice and went on, "You are so certain that everyone else shares your foolish notions: that you are irrevocably bound to some terrible fate. You are not evil, Findur. You have done nothing wrong save to torment yourself with these ridiculous fears."

Findur examined Liniel with incredulous eyes. Saw that she was serious. "I don't believe you," he said. "I remember the fear in your eyes. When we were married. When I told you who I was. But you followed, I don't know, Curuan's wishes, your own twisted ambitions. Convinced yourself that I was harmless." His voice escalated. "Manwë my witness, I struck out at you, and still you believed I would not harm you! Do not deceive yourself. I am not the savior of the elven people." With sudden resolution, he turned away from her and began ascending the hill. "Goodbye, Liniel."

He heard Liniel's quick footfalls behind him. "Excuse me? You're simply leaving?"

He tried to answer, but a strange, choked sound emerged from his throat. He bit his lip, and was unsurprised when Liniel's hand caught the back of his shoulder.

"What now," he managed. Inexplicably, Liniel did not answer. Instead, she stepped forward, turned to face him, tilted her head towards his, and kissed him.

His first instinct was to pull away, but a combination of delayed reaction due to shock and pure selfishness—two months since their lips had last met, he allowed himself to think—put off the impulse. He found himself sinking into the kiss, placing his hands against her back and pulling her towards him, as if each shared second could somehow be summoned from the wrong direction, undoing the months and erasing these events wholly. It was with great reluctance that he broke away, slowly lifting his eyelids, afraid to find himself back in the present.

When his eyes were open, he blinked a few times, slightly disoriented. Then he saw Liniel's face. Her jaw was set in a small, hopeful smile, but her eyes were devoid of love. Bright they were, with determination, with the beginnings of triumph... but nothing to do with him.

He continued walking.

He heard Liniel back away behind him. "I'm going to Curuan," she said. "Perhaps he can lift you out of this madness." A strange lilt came to her tone, and though her next words did little to lessen it, neither was their own sting weakened. "For it's so like you," she said. "Running away as always." She paused, and her voice bittered. "Running away just like your mother."

He was not sure how it happened. One moment, he was rushing down the hill, running after her, and the next—having grabbed the phial instinctually, perhaps—he had doused her face with water. For a moment, her eyes went wide, then closed as she collapsed. Findur caught her before she reached the ground. She was surprisingly light in his arms.

He stared down at her. For a moment, she seemed to be shaking. Then he realized it was his own arms that were quivering.

He straightened up and began the walk up to the house.

Once inside, he proceeded to their bedroom, lowering Liniel's prostrate form onto the white-mantled bed. She looked astonishingly beautiful laying there, her dark hair strewn about her, her red lips parted slightly. Her tall, slender frame seemed a thing easily damaged, her complexion unusually pale. He leaned down to kiss her forehead but saw that her face was still damp. He was not sure how much contact with the river water would induce a vision, but he was not eager to find out.

"Goodbye, Liniel," he repeated, for no explicable reason other than to give this departure a sense of finality. He turned and went to the bureau, setting his bag upon it, but instead of going to the task of packing fresh clothing, a better action occurred to him. Though he was eager to leave the house, especially considering that Curuan might arrive at any moment, stronger was his desire for the truth.

He crossed the room, knelt in front of Liniel's shelves, and began to tear through them. He leafed through books and tossed them aside. He uncorked the rows of tonics (one, smelling very strongly of roses, he hurled across the room, then watched red liquid flow over the shattered glass and across the floorboards). He unclasped a box of paints and proceeded to tear out the inner lining, searching for secrets, for any damning evidence. He recalled their move from the mere and tried to remember if, in packing, she had been particularly guarding of any of her possessions...

The sketchbooks. Of course: the dog-eared, filled-up books that she rarely opened, never showing him their contents; the new one that had barely been touched. He remembered her sketching by firelight in the days before his departure. He remembered her covertly paging through an older volume on the anniversary of her parents' marriage. Whenever she was distraught, she went to her art for solace... and yet he had seen none of it, save her most recent sketches and the paintings on the walls! He was scarcely sure where she kept the books: in a bureau drawer, or the chest at the foot of their bed, or on a shelf in the spare bedroom?

He found them wedged underneath a cabinet in the sitting room—purposely hidden from him, he supposed. He had never deceived her like this. Oh, there was the letter, still secreted in the painting of Alqualondë, but that hardly counted; there was nothing in that letter that she didn't already know. Immediately, he seized the oldest, most decrepit book and, setting himself down on the floor, opened it.

The first pages were unimpressive landscape sketches, a few badly rendered portraits of people he had never seen before. Some were dated, all from the late Second Age. As he went on, however, Liniel's skill improved. Colored portraits began to show up amongst the sketches, rendered in a vivid, freeform style that increasingly resembled her more recent paintings. Certain faces began repeating: two dark-haired images, sometimes portrayed together, whom Findur took to be her parents, and, later on, a handsome young man with a wry smile, his piercing gray eyes oddly familiar, although Findur could not place him. More paintins—placid lakes, warm smiles. The man and a youthful Liniel clasped hands, Liniel beaming, the man smiling his same old crooked smile. _Some beloved who died in the Last Alliance_, he speculated. It would not have troubled him had he not learned of it in this fashion.

Coming near the end of the book, he became aware of a circular bulge pressing up against the pages, some object bound to the back cover. He flipped to the end and saw it: the silver ring he had seen Liniel holding one night years ago. It was smooth and featureless, tied to the binding with a loop of ribbon. He stared at it, recalling the sight of it in Liniel's hand. With a start, he realized where he had seen such a ring before: a box on the table beside his mother's bed, carved with morning glories and latched with gold (from Doriath, she had said). Open it, and behold! a silver ring, plainly too large for his mother's hand. His father's betrothal ring. He had blinked at the revelation, having too often overlooked the existence of this alleged father, but had listened carefully as she explained wedding rings. Suddenly, the golden band on her second finger (before as invisible as a birthmark) had taken on a pure, dazzling light.

He unfastened the ring, seizing its weight in his hand. What was Liniel doing with a betrothal ring?

He plunged back into the sea of lines and faces, flipping through the pages he had not yet examined. A tree, a garden, a wilted rose...

Impossible.

He stared at the page in before him, unable to comprehend its implications on any meaningful level. He could only stare. For it was a portrait, not of one man, but of two.

It was a portrait of Liniel's beloved. His gray eyes were harsh and matter-of-fact, though perhaps somewhat apologetic in his cynicism. Entwined with the brown of his hair were streaks of gray. Gray, for it was also a portrait of Curuan, his skin less creased, but no longer smooth, the gray eyes wrinkled at the edges, a shadow of the withered husk that he would soon become.

Beneath the portrait was a line scrawled in Liniel's hand: "He is gone forever." Gazing at it, he knew the truth, a truth scarcely more bewildering than all the rest that had come to light on this day.

Suddenly slumped, he bowed his head, observing Liniel's betrothal ring in his hand as if, in his vigilance, he would come upon some explanation, some rationale for this sudden, jarring unmanageability. In his mind, he unwillingly indulged in possible scenes: Liniel's radiant eyes, Curuan's contented smirk, a stolen kiss, a plighted troth. He imagined her quiet grief during his imprisonment in Mordor, her joy and disgust in discovering that he lived, his body slowly wasting away. Why had she not melted the ring? Some cruel gesture with which to mark her devotion to Curuan alone (still in love with his soul, although his physical form was too disfigured for her desires?) Every moment that they had shared together, in word and in body, had her heart been set on _him_? No idea was too far-fetched at this point; Liniel was so very good at deception.

He stared, and he pondered. And within him, something broke like glass.

  


A shirt, trousers, a week's supply of rations. It did not really matter. Where would he go? _To dwell among mortals in Gondor, or to live in Belfalas by the Sea..._ Liniel was right. He was a fool to think of it; no land would take him in. His place was here, amongst falsehood and false hopes and a web of uncertainties. And here he could not stay.

As he packed, he found himself taking furtive glances at Liniel's unconscious form, a reaction akin to the crowd that is appalled by some heinous crime, appalled but unable to look away. He was horrified that she still lay there, that she could yet breathe through those deceitful lips. An affirmation that the events of today had occurred and were not some passing, nightmarish dream.

Even as he left the room, he could not help but glance back, his desolate eyes falling upon her placid face.

* * *

opening quote:  
and out of a grey country darkness lies  
on the foaming waves between us, and mist  
covers the jewels of Calacirya for ever.  
(_The Fellowship of the Ring_, "Farewell to Lórien.")


	12. Laurelindórinan

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.  
**Timeline:** T.A. 252  
**Rating (this chapter):** PG

**Shadow Child  
Chapter XII: Laurelindórinan**

"And Findur found us?" Liniel finished softly, swirling her soup with her spoon but never quite finding the motivation to eat. Curuan did not respond, and she did not look up to find an answer in his expression. Finally, she pushed the bowl away and stood up, walking to the opposite end of the shabby little room. Still weak, she grasped the bedpost for support. She was acting foolishly, she knew, but for once in her life, she could not be any other way. She felt a tightness in her stomach, as if something were about to snap.

She heard the screech of Curuan's seat behind her. She turned and saw him standing, one white bony hand clutching the chair. "Sit down," he said. "Eat something."

"I'm not hungry."

"Of course you're hungry. You haven't eaten for days." He stepped forward and gently took her by the wrist. Liniel pushed him away and, with an air of resignation, returned to her seat at the table. She hated it when Curuan made physical contact with her. Not because of his appearance: she would never hold such a thing against him. It was his spiritual degradation that pained her, the pride and the callousness that had festered within even as his body decayed.

Curuan, sitting down again, pushed her soup towards her. "Eat."

Liniel frowned and picked up her spoon, first taking tentative sips and then swallowing more rapidly. The soup was thin but good. She turned her head towards the window as she ate, observing the midday traffic that passed below in the narrow road. While she had not yet left this room, the sight of the miserable crowded back street was all she needed to see of Osgiliath for her opinion of the city to sharply decline. But she was procrastinating. "What happened next?" she asked curtly.

Curuan shrugged. "You stared at each other. Findur turned, murmured a few dramatic lines, and left. You and I can both imagine what happened next, when you followed him. At any rate, your house was in complete disorder. Emptied drawers, broken bottles..."

"And I?" Liniel interrupted sharply.

Curuan smiled. "You were carefully laid out on the bed, unharmed—and unconscious. So you think it was the phial? How wonderfully ironic."

"I don't understand it," said Liniel. "_I_ wouldn't have been angry. Why would he use the water on me?" She saw Curuan smirk, and for a moment, she wondered if he found her assertions naïve, but she was not going to waste time arguing over such a thing. "You are certain that he left."

Curuan nodded. "That sword he never uses is gone. As is his traveling bag and, I suspect, some clothing and food. I don't know how much waybread you are accustomed to keeping in the house, but there was very little in the pantry. Also..." Curuan hesitated, then continued. "Your older sketchbooks were on the sitting room floor. You really were a fool to keep them, Liniel. Your ring was there as well. That was hardly a necessary keepsake. I thought you hated me, when I left."

"I hated you as a lovesick child hates her soldier for dying." There, let him brood on that for a while. Liniel was still digesting the contents of his message. The horror of it. If Findur was angry with her for hiding her knowledge of her identity, she could only imagine what conclusions he would draw from learning of her previous betrothal. She could just see the argument now: Findur, after tearing apart the house with unrelenting fury, would proceed to verbally tear apart _her_. He would leap headlong into it, making outrageous assumptions, refusing to listen to the calm, soothing voice of reason before him. Not that she wouldn't be angry, not that she wouldn't just love to rip apart every single one of his ill fit accusations and turn them around on him, but under such circumstances, she would remain calm, gently reasoning with him, while Findur blustered about the room in his senseless rage... wouldn't she?...

"Liniel!"

Liniel looked up, realizing that Curuan had called her name at least twice. "I'm sorry," she said. "What is it?"

"If you are certain that it was the river water—"

"I am. Unless Findur has suddenly acquired the talent of triggering more than a week of unconsciousness and three weeks of memory loss in one go—"

"But have you had the visions?"

Liniel fell silent, staring down at the rough wooden table. Images flooded her mind—golden leaves and a child's face, a silver circlet against dark hair, the scent of burning parchment.

"Yes," she answered softly.

Curuan waited for a few moments, evidently expecting a detailed report. "Well?" he finally asked.

"It's _my_ future," Liniel replied, continuing to eat her soup.

Curuan gave her an annoyed look. "If you've seen anything important, it's vital that I know it."

Liniel knew he was being reasonable, but in reality, she wasn't sure what to tell him. Smiling wryly, she recalled what her mother had once said of the river water: "It is an enchantment that depends in part on the one who sees. You yearn for much, Liniel, and so much will be given to you. But what you see may not be precisely what you expected." Well, true to form, Liniel's dreams had been complex to the point of incomprehensibility. Oh, her mind was full of images and sentiments, but there was no common thread, no sense of order or cohesion. She had a feeling that if she thought on them, she might sort them out... but she dared not upset her present emotional stability with such reflection. Weak, she knew.

"Do you in fact remember anything?" Curuan demanded.

Liniel thought for a moment and remembered the dark-haired girl amongst the golden leaves. "I think I saw my daughter."

Curuan made a frustrated noise and got up from the table. Liniel stood accordingly, placing her hands on her hips. "What? It's not as if _you've_ been particularly informative today. I've been awake for more than an hour and you still have not explained why you took me to Gondor. I hope you gave Thranduil a reason for our absence."

Curuan shrugged. "I made the attempt. I took the liberty of writing a letter to him in your name. After all, he's not acquainted with your hand, and I do believe I did a rather nice job on your diction..."

Liniel sighed with impatience.

"But I digress." Curuan gave her a wry, indulging smile. "The letter explained that, during his stay at Khazad-dûm, Morfindel had received word that his brother—"

"His _brother_?"

"—is going over Sea. Of course, upon returning home, you and he decided it best to spend some time with him before he finally departs—"

"That _is_ clumsy. What if neither of us returns? And you, Curuan, how have you accounted for your own absence?"

"I'm taking this time to visit my own relatives in Gondor. True, it is ridiculous. But if none of us returns, as is likely, you and your husband will decide to remain in Mithlond, sending your most profound apologies to the king for having left him short a blacksmith, and, of course, informing him that I, in my old age, have regrettably passed away—"

"You're not serious."

"Have a better idea?"

Liniel frowned. "No." She walked to the window, pushing the shutters further open. A draft of warm afternoon air passed through the small, dusty room. "This is a horrible city. I don't know why anyone would build it. I understand that we couldn't have remained in Greenwood, with Findur gone and I unconscious, but why Osgiliath? You may blend in well enough, but an elf is a rare sight in Gondor."

"A mortal is a rarer sight among elves. I know people here, or used to. Many of my old contacts are dead, but their children know of me. There are nicer sections than this. But don't tell me it is the city that troubles you."

He was right, as usual. Still, she did not reply. Instead, she asked the first rational, pertinent question that came to mind. "Did he recover the Elessar?"

"I haven't the slightest inkling. You're avoiding my questions."

Liniel sighed, leaning back against the wall and stretching her arms. Her long sleep had left her stiff beyond description. "We have to find him."

"And if he won't have you?"

Liniel saw a strange earnestness in Curuan's expression. "You don't know that," she said, a touch of anger rising in her voice. "You don't know any more of our argument than I do."

Curuan laughed, his thin gray locks falling back to reveal his shrunken, wrinkled head in full detail. "Stubborn to the last."

"Simply because he was angry then—"

"Angry? Such a commonplace word hardly does the matter justice! Or is assault a customary practice when it comes to your domestic struggles?"

Well, Curuan was finding this all very amusing. Not for long. She turned away and observed in a cool, even voice, "You're jealous."

Her words produced the response that she had expected. Curuan's laughter ended sharply. "I'm nothing of the sort," he replied, the indignation plain in his voice.

"Why, yes you are. Look at you! You're gloating because the woman that you left is finally suffering as you have suffered. Finally alone like you have been alone, trapped in your decrepit shell. After all, you wouldn't have me, so why should I have anyone else?"

Curuan did not respond. She turned and saw his face stiff and emotionless, his pale eyes staring at nothing.

Liniel stared, realizing what she had said. "I—" There was a catch in her voice. She tried again. "Forgive me. I did not mean—"

"Do not tell me what you did or did not mean."

She lowered her eyes. She had not meant to hurt him. Why did she always do this, causing chaos when everything was finally under control? She had not thought. Stupid. She stepped forward, brushing her fingers against Curuan's pale, wrinkled cheek. The skin was cool and uncomfortably moist. "I would have had you if you had let me," she said, her voice low and smooth.

Curuan did not look up at her. "You actually still believe that?"

"You left. I would have married you. You left me. You were always so prideful."

Gray eyes met hers, and a familiar sardonic smile. "Like this. You would have married me like this, knowing the skeleton I'd become."

"Yes."

"You're lying. You would have left me. It was inevitable, you know. It was much simpler for me to leave right away. To go to Gondor."

Liniel looked around her, at the rough furniture and the narrow, crowded street below. "Well, here we are," she said.

"Yes," said Curuan. "Here we are."

  


"I have it. You're from Eregion."

Findur looked up from the poorly bound parchment manuscript that lay on his desk. He was annoyed that his reading had been interrupted, but in truth, he had only been staring blankly at the words before him. "Eregion?" He laughed weakly. "How is that even possible?"

Catlike, Amroth left the doorway and bounded across the room, perching himself on the arm of a chair beside Findur's desk. "Simple." He began to explain his theory with elaborate hand motions. "Eregion was destroyed, what, two thousand years ago? A little less?"

"You're the king. You're supposed to know things like that."

"Ah, well, mathematics was never my strong point."

"Two thousand, then. Go on."

"Well, two thousand years ago, you had the good fortune of escaping its destruction and have been wandering aimlessly about Middle-earth ever since, calling no place your home."

Findur sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Interesting theory. Except that I'm not from Eregion."

"Oh." Amroth looked disappointed. Considering that Findur had denied every single location that Amroth had yet suggested as his place of origin, Imladris and Greenwood included, Findur could only imagine his confusion.

There was a few moments' silence before Amroth spoke again. For the first time that day, his words assumed a serious tone. "I don't mean to upset you with these questions. I'm only being foolish. For you worry me, Gwathion."

Findur's head jerked up. "Why is that?" he asked slowly.

"Oh, do not mistake me. I trust you. I told you I would give you leave to stay here in Lórinand, and I do not intend to retract that promise." The young king smiled in gentle reflection. "When you were first brought here, it was all I could do to convince you that you must stay until you recovered. You were the most difficult patient, struggling and insisting that you could not be in Lórinand... that you must leave."

Amroth's words cut Findur sharply, but he managed to answer in a cool, logical voice. "I was weak," he said. "I wasn't thinking clearly."

"Yes. You were weak." The humor faded from the king's face. "Why?"

"You know why. I ran out of food." Findur turned back to his reading, trying to interest himself in a detailed analysis of transformations in Silvan speech patterns during the Second Age. "Did you come here to share your latest theory or to interrogate me?"

"Hush, you're not on trial. But it's a perfectly legitimate question. Gwathion, you have a sword, and it's summertime. If you were so desperate for food, might you not have had more than your share of venison?"

Findur did not reply.

"I tell you, I don't mean to accuse you of anything," Amroth continued. "But a man who willingly starves himself to the point of death—and thus you were when my people found you—why, I can hardly comprehend such a man. You tried to kill yourself, but your soul defies this attempt, clinging to the body nonetheless!"

Findur stared down at the manuscript, seeing nothing. Amroth spoke so truly, and yet the man saw nothing, understood nothing. He could never glimpse the full breadth of the truth. "What is it that you want me to tell you?" he asked.

Amroth laughed suddenly. Findur raised his head to see the king's face bright, a soft smile on his face once again. "I told you, this isn't an inquiry, friend. Your only crime is towards yourself. Wherever you're from, it's clear that you've seen sorrow. But you can have a new beginning here!" Spontaneously, the elf leapt up and threw open the curtains on the window above the desk. A wide beam of yellow light streamed into the bedchamber, bestowing a golden hue upon the dark wood of the furniture and expelling shadows from corners and crevices. Outside, the mallorn trees were a flurry of green and gold, their branches swaying slowly in the breeze. This deed performed, Amroth took a scrutinizing look at the old manuscript that Findur was reading. "What is that, anyway? Surely you didn't find it here?"

"It's a history of the elvish settlement of Rhovanion," replied Findur a little sheepishly. "I found it in the library."

"Well, it sounds frightfully dull. The library, is that the extent of your movements in the past days? Why, you haven't left the house once. I could show you the rest of the city."

The cheering effect of Amroth's high spirits was too much for even Findur to deflect. "Don't you have work to do?" he asked, his voice on the edge of laughter. "Decrees to... decree, or something?"

Amroth nodded, looking pleased with himself. "Oh, yes, I've become quite good at the law-making and the politics of the job. But I've spent the past two weeks making rulings on property disputes. I can tell you, there are very few things more tedious than listening to property disputes. After that, I certainly wouldn't mind some leisure time. Really, you must come out. Everyone's talking about the strange hermit who doesn't speak. I could take you to see the stables, or the gardens—"

"Gardens?" Findur found himself saying.

Amroth nodded. "I'm wholly convinced that they're the finest in Middle-earth. Very fair and well-tended, but very natural looking. I might put in a good word about the maidens who tend it while I'm at it. The best are right by the south corner of the house. The Lady of the Noldor, Lady Galadriel, spent much time here before the War. Those were her gardens."

Findur felt himself freeze. "I would like very much to see them," he said softly. He paused for a moment, then asked a question that he knew he ought not to. "I... have heard much about the Lady Galadriel. Did you know her?"

"Why, yes." Amroth looked bemused.

"What... what was she like?"

Amroth thought for a moment. "She was beautiful," he said finally. "With every step, there was an aura of confidence, of grace. She would look at you and her eyes would shine with such _strength_; it was rather frightening. But there was a gentleness to her as well, a warmth. Like a—a mother, really. I never knew my own, you know. When she first came to Lórinand, after the revolt—" But here he stopped short. "What's the matter, Gwathion? You look very solemn."

"I was just thinking of my own mother," said Findur. "But go on." He looked up hopefully. "Tell me what happened then."

  


Liniel had seen many grand and stately buildings since her arrival in Osgiliath, but none had so impressed and disturbed her as profoundly as the residence of Dolgubêl, captain of the northern guard of Gondor.

"Are all the treacherous scoundrels of Gondor so finely housed?" she wondered aloud as she examined the intricate marble carvings that arched above the main entryway. This, and the high vaulted ceilings—and the black marble floors—and the white marble walls—and the gold fillet detail work that graced every surface imaginable—it was enough to make a person dizzy. Of course, the work was not half as fine as comparable items of elven make. Liniel couldn't help but smirk as she observed the irregularity of the golden candelabras that were mounted to the walls. How mortified Findur would be if he produced such poor work! Then again, the object of this decor was grandeur, not beauty, and with its grand halls and glaring gold, an air was produced of just that.

"Silence," Curuan commanded in stern reply to her question. "As if we weren't in peril enough already, an elf and a well-known but little-trusted relic like myself. Dolgubêl knows me from letters and hearsay. Why should he trust me? Try for a little inconspicuousness, as difficult as that may be for you."

Liniel ignored his self-defeating rant, straining her head up to observe a three tiered, full color mural on the ceiling. "I don't think that there were this many flourishes in the Dome of Stars."

"Still convinced that this is an ugly city?" Out of the corner of her eye, Liniel saw the familiar sarcastic smile.

"It has its redeeming points—" She broke off. The click of heels against marble tile was slowly approaching. She exchanged glances with Curuan, then smoothed back her hair, which she had let down for the occasion, and did her best to look stern.

Several moments later, a tall figure appeared at the end of the corridor. He strode quickly towards them, dark hair streaming behind him. By his bearing and his elegant costume, Liniel took him to be Dolgubêl, the master of the household himself. Swiftly, she assessed him. A man of noble features—high brow, full lips, firm jaw. A carefully trimmed beard, but a face so lineless that he might otherwise pass for one of the Eldar. He was finely clothed in red silk and darkest leather, his tunic fastened with a belt that would have looked more natural with a sword strapped to it. In short, she thought him rather handsome, although she did not like his eyes. The vivid green irises radiated a cold, calculating light, as if he were taking in the sights around him and trying to judge how he could best manipulate them to his favor.

_Yet I do the same_, thought Liniel.

Dolgubêl raised his hand in greeting. "Hail, Curuan," he cried, coming to a halt before them. His voice was of a fine quality, low but melodic. "I have looked forward to this meeting since you last contacted me." He turned to Liniel, grasping her hand with a smile. "But I have not had the pleasure of meeting you, my lady. I am Dolgubêl, son of Aglagân." Adûnaic names, she observed.

She paused a moment before replying. She would prefer to give an Adûnaic name herself, but Curuan had insisted that she be truthful. "I am Liniel, daughter of Celahir," she said. "I am pleased to meet you, sir."

"Liniel," Dolgubêl repeated, enunciating the Sindarin syllables. "You must be of high blood." (1) The smile abruptly left Dolgubêl's face. He reached out and pushed back her hair to reveal her carefully concealed ears. "And I see that you have the features to match."

Liniel silently cursed Curuan as she hastened to explain. "I did not deceive you out of ill will. But I knew that you have no great love of elves—"

"That is an understatement." Dolgubêl spun to face Curuan, his face the portrait of indignation. "How dare you bring this _albai_ into my house?" (2) 

"Don't be a fool," said Curuan flatly. "She is Avari, as trustworthy as I am."

Dolgubêl raised an eyebrow. "It pains me to ask this question—but how trustworthy is that? You forget that I know almost nothing of you, Curuan, save half-forgotten tales passed down by my father and your own correspondence."

Liniel saw a rigidity come over Curuan's features. "The only sign of my loyalty that you need is etched into my face," he said softly.

Unexpectedly, Dolgubêl nodded. "My words were rash," he admitted with a sudden, strained smile. Curuan had warned her that some of his "sources", hungry for an explanation for his physical disfigurement, had taken to believing that the curse was no punishment, but some way of forcibly ensuring Curuan's loyalty. Still, it astonished her that an intelligent man like Dolgubêl would believe such an ill-wrought lie. That his desire to discover in Curuan a fellow supporter of Sauron so distorted his judgment.

"Think nothing of it," Curuan replied smugly.

"And yet..." Dolgubêl stared at her, deliberating. "Have you then no sympathy for the elven kingdoms of Eriador and Rhovanion?"

"Have sympathy for that pack of kinslayers, usurpers of thrones and robbers of my people's land?" cried Liniel. "Death would be sweeter!"

"Will you witness to this?"

Liniel hesitated so briefly that Dolgubêl did not notice her delay. "I am a servant of Sauron, Lord of Mordor," she said in the coarse words of the Black Speech. "And whether he returns or no, I remain loyal." A pause. "I believe that he will return."

At this, Dolgubêl bowed his head, though his eyes never left her face. "Then you are welcome in my household." He continued to stare at her in such a way that she wondered if this performance was not unlike hers, a concession made in order to gain information.

"I thank you, sir," she said.

Straightening up, Dolgubêl shook his head. "Ah, it is nothing. I must apologize for myself. It is so difficult to trust others nowadays." He threw them a winning smile. "Follow me. We can sit down and continue this dialogue in comfort."

"Then things go badly with you?" asked Curuan with his customary bluntness as they walked down the broad, gaudily decorated passageway.

"I would not say that. I receive word from my friends in the South often. Through them, the greatness of Númenor lives on, untainted by these _golug_-lovers. (3) But they are becoming too much like the men that they rule, mere savages. And then there are a few dignified men like myself left in Osgiliath... but we are a dying faction. Loyalty goes as deep as a man's purse here, and many who are in the pay of the King forget their other allegiances. And then there is that rabble in Minas Ithil, who have much speech with the men of Rhûn, but they are half-Easterling themselves and are not to be trusted to any high degree." Dolgubêl stopped then and led them into a small but ornate chamber dominated by a heavily ornamented table and wide, gloomy tapestries. "Sit down if you like," he urged as he walked to a side table where a bottle of wine and three goblets waited. "You must forgive me for the manner of service, but I thought we would prefer privacy. Wine, anyone?"

"No, thank you," said Liniel, but Curuan accepted a glass, neatly downing half of it in one gulp.

Dolgubêl poured himself some wine and took a seat at the head of the table. "Now, business. I am assuming it was a matter of some import that led the elusive Curuan to my door."

"Not really," said Curuan. "But we happened to be nearby, and we thought you might possess the information we seek. You see, we are searching for someone. An elf, dark-haired and broad of shoulder, traveling alone. Do you know anything?"

Dolgubêl scowled. "What would I know of an elf?"

"Judging by your opinion of them," Liniel interjected sharply, "you would know much. As captain of the northern guard, you must hear of any strangers who pass within Gondor's borders and know a great deal about strange movements beyond. You have contacts scattered throughout Gondor, Harad, Rhûn, and Rhovanion. If one of your associates came across a lone elf traveling, would you not hear of it?"

"It matters not. I have heard nothing." The pleasant gentility left his voice. He turned to Curuan. "You waste my time. Greatly were you revered by my fathers, and for what?"

Curuan's reply was to slowly, deliberately finish his wine. He set the glass down on the table with a clink. "What is it that you desire to know?" he asked in a sedate voice.

"Tell me of the heir!" Dolgubêl hissed. Then he glanced suspiciously at Liniel, a cold glare coming into his eyes. His next words were unintelligible, and it took Liniel a few moments to identify them as Adûnaic. To her dismay, Curuan replied in the same tongue. For several minutes, they continued on in this fashion. It was all she could do to remain silent, staring at the red tapestries that covered the walls and imagining the pleasure she would find in standing and screaming, "You fool! What do you hope to hide from me? I know more of the heir than you will ever know!"

Nevertheless, she held her tongue, and it was not until Dolgubêl had cordially escorted them down the fine corridors and out to the street that she exclaimed, "What were you talking about all that time?"

"Nothing of importance," Curuan assured her as they began their walk down the broad street, where rows of tall pillared mansions shone in the late summer sun. In the distance, she saw an arched bridge sweep up and over the dark, rushing waters of the Anduin.

"Dolgubêl," Curuan went on, "for all of his pomp and conceit, is woefully uneducated. He has no idea that the heir is an elf. Expects him to establish an everlasting kingdom for his human followers—a second Númenor. And so Findur may... if he could ever convince the Easterlings to stop fighting one another and foolish men like Dolgubêl to put away their misconceptions."

Liniel smiled as she listened to Curuan go on about her husband's hypothetical political victories. She had seen indications of these things in her dreams, but only the most circuitous images, and the thought of her rash, impulsive Findur ruling empires seemed incredible.

It was so easy to forget that they were supposed to hate each other.

"Why, if Dolgubêl actually saw the Dark Lord," Curuan finished, "I think he'd run in fear."

Liniel gave Curuan a surprised look. "And I suppose you wouldn't. I think you're allowing this role to go to your head."

"Not at all," Curuan replied, but she thought she saw his smile droop a little.

"I didn't mean to upset you," she offered.

"You never do."

His tone was flat, his gaze never shifting. Yet a little spark of light seemed to glint in her direction, and she thought she sensed the slightest tremble of his gaunt, wrinkled hand, drawing near and then back again. The briefest intimations of desire, gone as soon as they had appeared. Liniel looked up at the figure beside her and tried to discern the lineless face and sharp gray eyes of the man she had once loved. "Oh, Curuan," she sighed, and when he turned his head in reply, she spoke not a word, but smiled and gently rested her hand upon his, all the time thinking of another man, another time, another world.

  


Amroth stood in the center of Findur's chamber, dark locks neatly arranged, high cheekbones giving his face a handsome dignity, mouth twisted into a horrified grimace. "But you have to go!" he exclaimed, his sleeves flapping as he gesticulated. "Everything depends on it!"

Findur sighed, sitting farther back in the chair beside the window. "I just don't think it's a good idea."

Amroth's grimace grew more horrible, his eyes wide with desperation. Findur had to commiserate with him—he should have warned Amroth of his apprehension ahead of time, not five minutes after they were supposed to leave to meet Alfirin and Mithrellas. "I'm sorry," he continued. "It's only that—"

"But you can't abandon me!" Amroth was clearly not listening to Findur's words. "I tell you, I am in love with this girl! We're destined to be together!"

"Then you don't need me to be there," Findur murmured pointedly. He had only been in Lórinand for a week and a half, and it was already clear to him that Amroth fell in love just about every Tuesday. Only a few days ago, he had been raving about some other maiden. This week, it was Alfirin, a gardener who, if you took Amroth's word as fact, was the loveliest woman to walk Middle-earth, save Lúthien herself (and, in Amroth's eyes, this last part was debatable).

"I do need you," Amroth insisted. "If I'm with her alone, it will become overtly romantic, awkward, a disaster waiting to happen. But if the four of us meet, it's only dinner." Seeing Findur's unconvinced stare, he sighed and sat down beside him. "I'm not doing this only for myself," he confided. "No matter what I try, you keep cutting yourself off from me, from everyone. I'm trying to help." He rested a hand on Findur's shoulder and leaned forward with wide, earnest, pleading eyes. "Please?"

Findur sighed. "You say it's only dinner. But it's not. While you may be interested in Alfirin, I don't feel that way about Mithrellas. I'll be leading her into something that I can't—won't continue."

Amroth laughed at this. "Gwathion, you have the most inept understanding of women. What do you think Mithrellas will prefer: a pleasant dinner that leads to nothing, or being abandoned at the last moment?"

He had a point. At any rate, the reasonable thing to do would be to tell Amroth the truth—that he was married and that, while his marriage was about as viable as a block of wood, he didn't feel like following in the footsteps of Amroth's illustrious parents anytime soon. But he said nothing. After all, it was just dinner. "I'll go," he conceded. "But don't expect me to be charming... or even particularly pleasant."

Amroth did not seem to hear his last words. "Splendid!" he cried, springing up and running to the door. "Come, let's hurry! If we make haste, we won't be late!" He did not seem to notice the lukewarm expression on Findur's face and the plodding manner in which he followed Amroth out to the corridor.

  


"It's a beautiful night," Mithrellas remarked blandly as they walked through the gardens after their dinner. Amroth and Alfirin had fallen behind, too preoccupied with their meaningless whispers and giggles to walk at a reasonable pace. Now he and the girl were alone.

A beautiful night, she had said. What kind of comment was that? Findur, who had not been in this kind of situation for centuries (after all, with Liniel, it had never been small talk), had no idea what to say. It was actually a bit cold and damp, and there was no moon. Of course, the stars were out—but they were partly veiled by clouds, nothing exceptional. Yet they were there.

"Yes," he replied. "The stars are beautiful. Like jewels." That was good; it was inconsequential, but there was an aura of thoughtfulness to it.

Mithrellas glanced up at the sky. "Why, you're right. That's very poetic." She smiled at him coyly, and Findur felt the knot in his stomach tighten. All night, he had been trying to disregard the fact that they were technically here as a couple, but Mithrellas was not catching on. Even though it had been _he_, under Amroth's pleading, who had first asked _her_ to dinner, Mithrellas's behavior would lead one to believe just the opposite.

As they walked, Mithrellas, a gardener herself, pointed out some of the more spectacular flowers and gave a short description of their cultivation. "That's a bed of niphredil," she said, pointing to a thick expanse of tall, slender white blossoms. "It grows wild in many places, but we like to cultivate it wherever we can, for it blooms in winter."

Findur nodded, trying to look interested.

"And here, on the right, these are my favorite of the roses." Findur followed her finger and saw several interwoven rosebushes. "Most of them are in seed by now, but these are later blooms. Aren't they lovely? Lately, Alfirin and the others have been experimenting with new varieties, but I like the simple ones best. See, they only have one row of petals. Tell me, what's your favorite flower?"

"I'm not sure that I have one."

"Oh, but you do! You just don't know it!" Mithrellas stared pensively at him for a few moments. "I think you're an iris person."

Findur laughed. "Am I!"

"Oh, yes! You're tall and dark and quite and noble... but there's something inside of you, something that burns like fire." Mithrellas faded off, her bright eyes replaced by a curious gaze. "I want to show you something," she said. She grasped his hand, then let go, her gaze deepening. "Your skin—"

"It's always been so," Findur put in with a shrug. "It's nothing."

"Oh." Mithrellas smiled disconcertingly. "Well, come on then." She grasped his hand again and led him deeper into the gardens.

When they stopped, it was in a very still, silent place. Findur could scarcely hear even the noises coming from other parts of the gardens; the present silence was too immense. Even his own breathing was a faint, muted sound. He knew this place, knew the quality of this silence. When had he been here before? Day, not night. Perhaps with Amroth; yes, he had seen all of the gardens with Amroth...

And then he realized.

"Isn't it lovely?" Mithrellas cried. Indeed, roses and violets and long draping lilacs adorned the beds of his mother's garden, and beside them, low beds of elanor and a tall, proud magnolia whose white blossoms now formed a crumbling brown blanket over the ground. Near the magnolia, at the bottom of a slope where much water would run, a bed of irises blushed deepest violet. But in the silence, the vast and impenetrable silence, Findur felt as if they were not there at all, neither the irises nor the roses nor Mithrellas's willowy frame. It was if he were in a void.

Then Mithrellas caught his hand, caught it tightly. He let out the breath he had been holding and clutched at the solid reassurance of reality, allowing himself to be led to a low bench hidden away behind some juniper bushes.

"Gwathion?" Mithrellas said softly.

"Yes?"

"It is a beautiful night." Mithrellas slid closer to him on the bench, so that their arms pressed tightly together, but Findur was too tired and listless to care. They were still holding hands, and he did not let go. If he did, he would lose his sole proof that this was not some confusing dream.

"Gwathion?"

"Yes?" When she did not answer, Findur turned his head towards hers, only to find that she was facing him, her eyes smiling and inches away from his own. She leaned forward and very gently, very sweetly kissed him. It was but a moment, but as she began to break away, he lifted his hand to her neck and pulled her closer towards him, beckoning, inviting. He had a vague feeling that he was not doing this for the right reasons, that somewhere there were a pair of gray eyes and a sharp tongue that would curse him if they knew, but it was not enough. He encircled Mithrellas in his arms. He pulled her more tightly against him. Yes, this was real, flesh against flesh; this was his anchor. His fingers slipped down from neck to shoulders, grasping the cool, firm skin, pushing back the coarse cloth that impeded him.

Abruptly, sharp nails dug into his arms as Mithrellas tried to wriggle out of his grasp. Stunned, he let go of her. Staring at him with eyes wide with disbelief, she pulled her dress back up over her bare shoulder. The cadence of her heavy, uneven breathing filled his ears.

"You're married," she said.

He wanted to deny it. How could she know for sure? And so she wouldn't know, wouldn't know whether he was lying or not. It's not true, he would say. It's not.

But the amazed look on his face gave his heart away. "How could I not know?" she said, answering his silent question. "How could I not see it in your eyes, in the way you held me? How I didn't see it before... I don't know. I don't know." (4)

Findur bowed his head and closed his eyes—to gather his thoughts, to escape, to hold back tears that would not come regardless? "I'm sorry that I came tonight," he managed. "I never intended... you have to believe me, I never intended..."

"I believe you," came Mithrellas's voice softly. "But I have to go now, Gwathion. And I won't see you again."

He felt her cool hand brush softly against his cheek. A moment later, she was gone. Her footsteps continued for a long time afterward. Only when they had faded did he open his eyes and raise his head. The silent garden stretched out like an endless wasteland. None of this was his, the irises, the elanor, the tall white ever-fading magnolia. This was not his home.

Findur stood, and for the first time, he fully recalled the events that had brought him to Lórinand. The sharp dizzy pain in his body had been nothing compared to the horror of waking to gentle smiles on elven faces. "How fortunate you are, stranger," they had said. "If we had not chanced to stumble upon you... It is seldom that our hunting parties venture so far north." How easier it would have been to die, simply and cleanly. In death, the memory of Liniel's eyes and the golden blossoms of his mother's Laurelindórinan would have never touched him. (5)

Fortunate? Perhaps. He did not want death, not really. And was not the fair prison of the Valley of Singing Gold more congenial than the cold halls of Mandos? Both were dark, meaningless, empty at the core. Perhaps he would remain in Lórinand, just a little while longer. Not forever. These things never lasted forever. He would read books and see all of the flower gardens that Amroth could show him. Just a while longer.

With an easy grace, Findur left the garden.

* * *

1. high blood - it seems probable that a person of pure Númenorean blood would be more likely to have a Sindarin name than your average Gondorian.

2. albai - Black Speech for "elf". Although Dolgubêl fancies himself cultured, he has no problem with using Orcish words for people who he deems deserve it.

3. golug - another word from the Black Speech, meaning "Noldor".

4. "Guile or trickery in this matter was scarcely possible - for the Eldar can read at once in the eyes and voice of another whether they be wed or unwed." _Morgoth's Ring_

5. Laurelindórinan - one of the names that Galadriel gave to Lórien. It means "Valley of Singing Gold" and makes an oblique reference to Laurelin, one of the Two Trees of Valinor. Although this name would never become widespread in this universe, it is not impossible that Galadriel devised it in the Second Age and shared it with Findur when speaking of that land.


	13. Naurhir

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.  
**Timeline:** T.A. 252  
**Rating (this chapter):** PG.

**Shadow Child  
Chapter XIII: Naurhir**

A sharp noise rang out and roused Findur from his sleep. His eyes darted back and forth across the small chamber. It was perhaps five o'clock in the morning, maybe earlier, judging by the amount of light that streamed through the window across from his bed. Drowsily, he sat up. He wondered if the strange sound would come again. But as he listened, he gradually realized that the atmosphere of the house itself was all wrong. There was too much clamor for early morning. An inordinate number of voices dimly resounded in the distance, accompanied by a comparable number of shuffling feet. And that noise—had that been the sound of weapons being unsheathed?

With this realization, Findur sprang out of bed and hurriedly began to dress, strapping his old sword to his side for good measure. He dashed out of the room and down the hall, his uncombed hair flying behind him. Soon, he came to the entrance hall, and upon a most unusual scene.

In the center of the wide, unfurnished room stood Curuan, wrinkled and ragged as ever in an old weather-stained cloak. He clutched Amroth from behind, holding a small but decidedly deadly knife against the king's throat. About the two stood a circle of guards, bows drawn in Curuan's direction.

Curuan looked up and saw him. "Ah, there you are, Findur. I was going to send for you, but I see that you've found us on your own."

Findur saw Amroth wrinkle his brow at these words of recognition. He was remarkably composed for having a knife to his throat. "Gwathion?" His voice was incredulous. "Do you know this man?"

Findur stared numbly. He could not reply. He felt a tightness in his chest. It was difficult to breathe, the stages of respiration requiring conscious thought. This couldn't be happening. He was safe here. What did Curuan have to do with the golden woods and forgiving smiles of Lórinand?

Meanwhile, the amusement in Curuan's eyes extended in his lips. "_Gwathion_, is it, now? I must say, Findur, if this continues on, Tûrin Turambar himself will blush to see your record of self-degrading pseudonyms."

Findur forced himself to reply. "Please, don't do this," he finally murmured. "He needn't be involved—"

"I have no intentions of harming anyone," insisted Curuan. "Agree to come with me, and your friend will be safe."

By this time, even some of the guards were staring at Findur in stunned silence.

"Gwathion," said Amroth, "You don't have to say anything. I said that I would shelter you—" But the knife pressed closer to his throat, and he fell silent.

Out of the corner of his eye, Findur saw a few faces appear in the doorway to the right—Randuil, the royal medic, and Mithrellas and Alfirin, their hands brown with early morning gardening. They gasped and turned to leave, undoubtedly to get help, but Curuan's voice came sharply over the silence, suddenly cold and humorless: "Stop or your king dies."

The faces watched him. Curuan's eyes glared. All of them, waiting for his word.

"I'll go with you," said Findur weakly. "Please—don't harm him."

"Gwathion, don't," Amroth pleaded, but Curuan had already begun to loosen his grip. Finding himself free, the king gave a resigned nod, and the guards lowered their bows. In turn, Curuan sheathed his knife.

"Then I'll go pack." Head bowed, Findur turned and began to walk to his room. Curuan followed him closely behind. Findur walked a few paces, then stopped, turning back to Amroth.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I never meant to bring trouble upon you like this. I never meant..."

But Amroth nodded and smiled, though sadly, and the silver circlet across his forehead gleamed in the shafts of sunlight that fell through open windows in far-off rooms. "Peace, my friend. I know. And you..." He paused a moment, formulating his words. "You are in my thoughts," he said finally.

"Findur. It's time." There was Curuan's grating voice, expelling all thoughts of absolution from his mind. Findur sighed, and turned sharply away, and with every step, a bitter note rang out, the hollow echo of a vacant dream.

  


Outside, the rising sun spilt its first rays of scarlet light over the horizon, illuminating the mellyrn with an eerie reddish glow. The leaves themselves were tinged with gold, the yellow blossoms scattered upon the forest floor as if in prefigurement of the hour when the golden leaves would join them. Blearily, Findur blinked in the sunlight. He was always so tired. It seemed an effort to continue walking, to face the withering forest without being reminded of the despair that echoed forth with every footfall.

"I walk with you now," he said aloud, his voice sounding forced and hollow, "but we part ways the moment we cross the border of this land. I'm done with you, Curuan." It was not an idle threat. Curuan had lost his advantage of secrecy. There would be no more hostages or eluded guards. Alone, he was no match for Findur.

If Curuan felt threatened, he masked his fear well. "Ah. I see," he said with sparkling eyes. "I suppose you're planning to return to Amroth and very humbly ask his pardon." He bent over to gauge Findur's response. "No? Ah, well, then you can always go to Belfalas! That would be the destination this time, wouldn't it? I'm sure you'll have a splendid time, wasting away beside the Sea and hoping no one recognizes you as... what was that charming bit of nomenclature? Ah, yes, _Gwathion_. Full marks on the poetry, although I must say, it is a tad too lyrical for the loathsome spawn of the Dark Lord, don't you—"

"_Stop it_!" To his own surprise, Findur found himself halted and facing Curuan, muscles taut, fists clenched with fury. "You decrepit fool!" he cried, and his voice was deep and resounding. "You have lied to me and threatened me and destroyed my life in more ways than I can number, and yet you continue on in your hateful speeches as if, by insulting me, you might somehow win my undying loyalty! You are heartless, Curuan, I have no doubt of that, but are you fey as well?"

Curuan reciprocated with the even stare of sharp gray eyes. "Lied," he repeated distastefully. "Destroyed your life. Where would you be without me, Findur? I've just rescued you from an existence of perpetual self-deprecation. You should thank me! Where would you be without me? Answer me!"

"I would be _home_," Findur hissed, turning sharply away and continuing to walk.

"Home," scoffed Curuan as he strove to match Findur's speed. "Your precious Imladris, of course. Do you think that _I_ intended you to run off as you did? Don't be so quick to blame others for your foolish decisions. Home indeed—it was a lie of a life that you had there, and you know it. And yet you mourn being sundered from your dearest sister—the sister that you robbed—"

"I didn't steal the Elessar."

There was a significant pause in which Findur feared that Curuan had not heard him. Or worse, heard him far too well. Better to have said nothing of the Elessar.

"Then you are content to live the lie once more," Curuan finally murmured.

"No," Findur protested, though the words were not wholly without truth. "My life was most a lie in Greenwood. You were the liar. Not I."

A prolonged sigh. "Oh, come now, Findur. Don't be dramatic. I am much too straightforward of a man to be the devious figure that you portray. Ask me a question and I'll answer it; it's as simple as that."

"But I won't know if you're telling the truth."

"And when have I lied to you?"

Findur turned and stared at him incredulously. "You were engaged to my wife."

Curuan unexpectedly gave a hoarse laugh. "Astonishingly enough, yes. It's a matter long past. I advised Liniel to be upfront with you, but she insisted that it would destroy your relationship. She had already feigned ignorance for many months at that point. After all, she had convinced herself from the beginning that you couldn't possibly be the heir, and it was, for her, easier to continue with this pretense even after she learned the truth. Foolish, but I humored her and went along with it." He shrugged good-naturedly. "Well, now it seems that her deeds have caught up with her—"

"Is she all right?" cried Findur in spite of himself.

"Oh, fine, fine save for some months of memory loss. You'll find that she remembers nothing of your argument—although she has had several interesting dreams that she neglects to tell me about."

Findur did not reply. Several minutes of silence passed. He watched the gray trees ahead of them take on hues of green and gold as the sun steadily rose. They were now heading due west.

"How did you find me?" he asked suddenly.

"Interested in what I know now that you're finished defending yourself? Honest Findur is a keener negotiator than he dare admit."

"Just answer!"

"As you wish," Curuan, whose hobbling had worsened in the past several minutes, cleared his throat and began. "It wasn't easy. After you ran off, I hadn't the slightest notion of where to begin. Quite luckily, I finally had word from a band of Northmen—the ties between Gondor and the men of Rhovanion are stronger of late, and I know plenty of people in Gondor. They'd seen you and the hunters that discovered you. Naturally, they'd been fascinated—and alarmed—by the sight of elves. It was clear that only elves of Lórinand would usually roam in that area. So I managed to slip past the border guards of Lórinand and head directly for the most populated area. From then on, it was simple. I arrived last night and chanced to find you straightaway, speaking with Amroth. As your friend and the king, he was the ideal choice as hostage." Receiving a sullen glare from Findur, he continued on, "Oh, come now. I would never have harmed him. Do that, and I would be killed myself. Of course I knew that you would accept my terms. I used force because it was the only way to make you listen."

A few more steps, a few more moments of silence. Presently, they came in a fork in the road. To Findur's surprise, Curuan continued west.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Ah, so you you've decided to come," said Curuan with a grin.

Findur shrugged noncommittally. Curuan had been right at one point: there was nowhere for him to go. Belfalas indeed: Selmë was in Belfalas yet, in Edhellond. She would know his face. And he could hardly return to Greenwood, not now. Lindon, too, was impossibly distant, and too near to Imladris, and there too he might be recognized, though he had been but a child when Círdan, the lord of that land, had last come to Imladris. And even if he found some haven? What then?

Findur closed his eyes, took one last breath. "Where are we going?" he asked again. His voice rang surprisingly clear.

Curuan's smile widened. His gray eyes twinkled. "I'm taking you to Khazad-dûm," he said. "There's something I want to show you there."

  


They were going down a staircase again. The staircases were the worst. Findur inhaled sharply, clutched the first two rock projections that his hands could easily grasp, and began the uncomfortable descent down yet another rough, uneven set of steps into the heart of Khazad-dûm.

He could have sworn that he heard a little, imperious snicker as he went.

Findur sighed, forced himself to conclude that the darkness was impairing his wits, and said aloud, "You'd think that, if a person took the time to construct these stairs, they might make them a bit more even."

Kali, who was walking in front with the torch, gave a low, spirited laugh. "Even?" the dwarf cried. "You should be glad that there are stairs at all! Hewn out of solid rock, they were, and no one comes down these ways anymore to use them. No good mining this way. There'll not be stairs when we start tramping through the natural caverns. See how you like it then. They say that even Orcs stayed clear of those parts when Khazad-dûm was young."

Findur had a feeling that Orcs and staircases would soon be the least of their worries. What exactly they were facing, however, he could not fathom. Kali, whom Curuan had contacted and somehow roped into their plans without telling him of Findur's identity—would the conspiracy never end?—knew from Curuan's words that some dark creature slept down here. Much to his annoyance, Findur's knowledge was no more expansive. He didn't understand why Curuan couldn't simply tell him the identity of this thing that Kali thought he was somehow going to vanquish—"But don't worry King Durin with the news!" Curuan had added to this audacious statement. "He'll want to deal with the creature himself, and I tell you, only an elf—like Findur—can control it." Lies, lies, and more lies, and now they were descending towards the thing itself, and this was insane; what had he to do with monsters in the bottoms of mines?—

But a dark presence, looming in the back of his consciousness like a fire in his head, reminded him that even Curuan had not gone entirely mad.

What was it, he wondered, and how had Curuan known it was there? Did he too feel its presence? Findur glanced at Curuan, who was walking before him, but from what he could see of his face, he wore no more than his usual grimace.

Sharply, the stairs ended. A narrow natural crevice made a passageway through the rock, but it split sharply in two some yards ahead.

The three stood, staring ahead. Kali made a disconsolate huff. He looked up at Curuan and Findur. "Where do we go now?" he demanded.

Curuan turned and looked at Findur. What, was he expected to know all the answers now?

"I—I don't—" But as he gazed down the black crevice and felt the presence burn in his skull—almost a voice now—he realized that he did know. He stepped forward, pointing to the right.

"That way. And down, far down. Through many caverns and crevices." His voice grew soft. "He's waiting for us there."

If Kali thought anything of his friend's odd behavior, he most likely ascribed it to elven temperament. "Well, then, what are we waiting for?" He forged ahead into the cramped tunnel, and Curuan and Findur followed. The air was warmer here, like the heat of a forge, and the rock were strangely shaped, jagged but level, as if some rough force had shaped it. When Findur placed his hand against it for support, it was warm to the touch.

As they marched on, the passages narrowed and sloped increasingly downward. Findur was leading the way now, holding Kali's torch before him. He did not think about where he was going; the presence called him like a distant light piercing through wide shadows. Sometimes he thought he heard a voice, low and smooth, but it spoke no words. Rather, it was a pulse, soft and rhythmical like the hissing of a flame. Though Findur's fear did not lessen, it became something manageable, a constant watchfulness that put all his senses on the ready.

The cavern walls grew blacker and warmer, and their descent grew steeper still. Soon the air itself was uncomfortably hot, far too warm for a subterraneous passage. Curuan began to lag behind, his creased forehead moist with perspiration, and Kali grumbled several times, hitching up his shirtsleeves, but no one spoke.

An hour, perhaps, passed in this manner. Findur had given up all hope that the caverns extended to any lesser distance than the ends of the earth when Kali stopped abruptly and pointed ahead with a broad index finger.

"Look there!" he cried. "A fire!"

Findur had been aware of the red glow for several minutes, but so automatic had his movements been that it had not occurred to him to speculate on its origin. He stopped now, and stared, and thought that he could see the dim black outline of a frame somewhere amongst the flames. But it was hard to tell anything for certain; the firelight crept through a slender crevice of an opening, tall and narrow, like a red scar across the black rock face. Whatever was beyond it was considerably larger.

"Stay here," Findur commanded, looking back at Kali, whose eyes were bulging out of his head, and at perfectly composed Curuan. He handed the torch to the latter—he had an uncomfortable feeling that if he gave it to Kali, the shuddering Dwarf might drop it. Then he turned, walked down the hallway, and disappeared into the narrow opening.

Inside, the narrow cavern was stifling, but Findur adjusted to the heat easily. Besides, there were more pressing sources of trouble—like the impossibly tall, dark figure crouched before him, wreathed in shadow and flame, wielding a bright sword in one hand and a great whip in the other.

"A Balrog," Findur muttered, gazing at the figure in awe and fear.

The creature's eyes flashed. "Balrog?" it growled in the same smooth, low, pulsing voice that had plagued him during the march. Were the words spoken or silent? He could not say. "Valarauco. Valar. Demon of might. I see. Yes, I am powerful. Could kill. Devour the flesh. Burn. And you have awakened me." It extended its dark limbs, stretching, the fire about it glowing brighter. "Yes. I have slept. But why did I wake? What are you? You are not Vala or Maia. Yet your heart burns. Yes. I think I will not kill you yet."

"I would... prefer it... if you not kill me at all," said Findur, unblinking. "Why are you here?"

"I am Maia," said the Balrog. "I can open doors and close them. But the crevice is too small. The walls are old. I am tired. I sleep. I listen. Outside, the world is crawling with creatures." A gleam in dark eyes. "You could help me. Petty trifle... but not useless. Open the doors. Break the walls. We could take these halls of stone for ourselves. Outside, I hear the stunted ones dig. We could run them out, halt their stone-mongering. Flame is sweeter." A mischievous pause. "Your friends might not agree. We could kill them. Burn the bodies."

"No, no," Findur pleaded. "You can't kill them or me or anyone. Please."

"But I can. Why shouldn't I?"

"But there are more than Dwarves about!" Findur protested. "Elves and Men are strong. They'll attack you if they learn of you. They'll destroy you."

"I am stronger," said the Balrog. "Your kind is as a swarm of maggots to me. You will not survive."

"But... but..."

"Don't hinder me, foolish one. Help me burn. Shadow and fire will reign. Why are you afraid?"

"I'm not afraid!" cried Findur. "But don't you see? What of... what of Sauron? What would he think of your plans?"

"Sauron?" Confusion. "Yes, he was one of the great ones. But he is fallen. I felt his shadow retreat. His will matters not."

"No!" Findur found his voice stern and strong. The Balrog's shadow seemed to diminish before him. "Sauron's will has not perished!" he cried. "I am Naurhir, the Fire Lord! I am his heir! And I tell you that you cannot do this thing! You must wait. Wait until he returns. Then you can stir and make ready your plans. But not until!"

There was a frightening silence as the Balrog considered this. Findur's heart throbbed in his chest, but he was remarkably composed. A strange energy coursed through his limbs, a heady sensation of confidence and might. He waited.

"Then Sauron has not perished?" the Balrog asked.

"He has not." A lie, he hoped.

"And you are his progeny?"

"Yes."

"That is strange. Our kind does not stoop to the Eruhíni, the Children of the Accursed One. But I can see his flame in you. Yes, I can see his wisdom. You will be strong while he is weak. His successor like he was unto Melkor. I do desire fire... but I do not like to anger him. No. And I am tired still. Yes. Tired. Too much has passed. Perhaps the black blood and red flesh will wait." And with that, the Balrog turned and bundled his limbs into a ball, falling into a strange slumber.

Findur stared at the motionless form. He did not tremble, but his heart yet quickened. He still felt the curious strength within him. He realized that his hand was hovering over his sword hilt, and he drew away. He had done it. He had stopped this thing. He had saved Khazad-dûm! Now the Balrog would sleep forever, waiting for a day that would surely never come.

"Naurhir," he repeated. He was not ashamed as he had feared, only filled with a kind of glory, a weak memory of the moment when his voice had filled the cavern with an echoing presence. He smiled softly, then turned away and slipped back through the narrow crevice.

Curuan and Kali were waiting for him. Now, their bodies seemed unexpectedly small and delicate. One touch, and he could break them to pieces. He started up the rocky incline without speaking to either of them, not heeding the darkness of his path. Curuan and Kali hurried up after him. "What happened?" demanded Kali. "Did you kill it?" And Curuan, huffing as he strove to keep up: "Do you understand why I brought you here?"

"The thing will not trouble you, Kali. Tell no one of it," Findur instructed.

"But what did it say to you?" demanded Curuan.

Findur stopped and looked back at him. "He told me who I was," he said softly. "But that was not your truth to give or receive. It was mine. And do not forget it." Without another word, he turned and continued on into the vast, sprawling darkness.

  


When they came into the city, Curuan asked Findur what he thought of it. It was a weighty question. Osgiliath was beautiful, yes, with the dark Anduin rushing through a labyrinth of white towers and carved pillars. The city seemed to defy nature, the proud, imperishable structures transcending the seasons of the world. But the architecture was imperfect, with the roughness of the work of mortal hands, and too often beauty was sacrificed for grandeur.

"It's strange," he said to Curuan. "They reassure themselves with great structures, as if to boast of their might... but there are so few battlements." He looked to the horizon. In the distance, the shadowy range of Ephel Dúath loomed. "How easily they forget," he murmured.

Curuan's face wrinkled with a smile. "And you do not?"

Findur gazed silently upon the distant mountain range, then looked down at his hands. "I will never forget," he said.

  


That night, after he had dined and retired to his rooms, Findur found himself unoccupied and restless. For a while, he sat by a window that looked out upon the street and watched the evening traffic, but the rustic roads of outer Osgiliath were tedious beyond description. He sang softly to himself in the darkness, borrowing from old songs that he had half forgotten, but his voice sounded hollow and strange. He turned away from the window and tried to think about the plans that Curuan and he had discussed on their way to Gondor, but found that he could not sit still. He stood and began to pace across the little room, and the only word that his mind knew was _Naurhir_, and the only image, a great form wreathed in flame. Crouching, diminishing before him into a prostrate mass, the Balrog was like a child's toy, to be shaped and molded and commanded and crushed. Unthinkingly, his hand slipped into his pocket and gripped Arwen's small wooden bird, and he thought he understood things better.

He began to pace faster as his thoughts became grander, and he did not even hear the first snatches of song that rose up from the courtyard below.

"Then the gloom gathered; darkness growing, in Valinor, the red blood flowing..."

_I am Naurhir, the Fire Lord... I am the heir of Sauron..._

"...beside the Sea, where the Noldor slew, the Foamriders, and stealing drew their white ships with their white sails from lamplit havens..."

Findur became suddenly aware of the soft lines that were washing through his psyche. The Noldor? Why was a mortal singing of the Kinslaying?

Then he realized: it was not a mortal who was singing.

Findur hastened to the window. In the moonlit courtyard below, he saw a figure clad in red and gray walking across the stone pavement, singing softly as she went.

"The wind wails, the wolf howls. The ravens flee. The ice mutters in the mouths of the Sea..."

Findur stared for a moment, then turned and ran out of the room. He rushed through dark corridors and down winding stairs. As he went, the song grew clearer.

"The captives sad in Angband mourn. Thunder rumbles, the fires burn, and Finrod fell before—" (1)

Findur burst out into the cool night air of the courtyard. Liniel saw him and stopped, her eyes fixed upon his face.

"Findur," she murmured. She did not move, regarding him with soft gray eyes. The silence that followed carried the echo of her greeting.

"Hello, Liniel," he said. He found that he could not meet her gaze. "I—I heard your singing—"

"Yes." She nodded. The corners of her mouth quirked upwards. Everything about her poise bespoke serenity. The gray eyes continued to watch him. He didn't understand. Wasn't she angry?

"The Lay of Leithian, you know," she continued. She almost smiled, though wryly. "You always told the story better."

"Don't." His voice came apologetically. He wanted to... forgive her? Maybe. But the guilt and the anger was too much. Before she could reply, he went on, "Don't do this. I can't forget. I regret hurting you. But I need answers. Don't you see? I can't pretend like you."

Liniel nodded slightly, neither confirming nor denying his accusations. She turned and walked to a withered beech tree, the only growing thing in the courtyard, clearing away the fallen leaves from beneath its crooked limbs. There she kneeled, and Findur followed her, taking a seat beside her.

"I have questions as well," she said. "If you'll remember, I know nothing of our argument—"

"I'm sure you can imagine what it was like," Findur replied acridly.

"Indeed!" cried Liniel. "And what have I done to deserve the blame? I loved you. I married with you because I loved you. I convinced myself that you were only Morfindel because I loved you. I did not understand then. I told Curuan of your identity because I loved you—because I wanted you to be great. If I lied—" But she saw the confusion in Findur's face. "But you think of the letter." Unexpectedly, she smiled. "Really, my dear, you're not the only elf in Endor with keen hearing. Remember our first trip to Thranduil's halls? I heard you fiddling with the painting then, and I heard Arandulë come in shortly after. From there, it was simple."

Findur turned away. "You don't have to sound so smug about it."

Liniel shifted herself back into his line of sight. Persistent as ever! "And you don't have to find faults in everything I say. You wanted the truth. There it is." She shook her head, sighed. "We can't waste time, arguing over these things. We've lied. Both of us. You must see, none of it matters." The smile returned. "My visions. A golden circlet across your brow. Don't you see?"

He bowed his head. He couldn't stand it. Watching her, her radiant eyes. Her words kindled something inside of him, yes. But at the same time, he could not help but recall... what was it that she had said to him? _I won't burn in your pyre_, she had said. _I won't become my mother_. Yet there she was, void of anger or of fear, burning, burning for him...

And she was right. It didn't matter, not really.

Sudden movement flickered above him. He looked up. Liniel had swept the remaining leaves into a small mound. She turned and saw him watching her. Their eyes met.

"Light a fire," she urged.

Findur stared for a moment before he realized what she was asking. He kept forgetting how much she knew. "Why?" he asked.

"Please, just do it. You'll see."

Findur sighed and, almost effortlessly, set his mind to kindling a fire in the leaves. A few moments later, smoke was rising from the pile, and a small yellow flame emerged.

Liniel looked up at him, smiling, her face golden in the firelight. From the small leather purse bound to her waist, she retrieved a small silver object. It was her ring of betrothal. She held out her hand. "Take it," she said. "I want you to melt it."

Hesitantly, Findur took the ring, felt the weight in his hand. Then he cast it into the fire. For several seconds, the heat had no effect, but gradually the silver began to soften and contort.

He looked up and saw Liniel staring at him with glistening eyes.

"It's your turn," she said softly.

"What—" But Liniel leaned forward and retrieved a folded parchment from his shirt pocket, smiling at the intimate gesture. It was his mother's letter. "Curuan saw and told me," she quietly explained.

"You want me to burn it?"

"You must lay down the past. We both must." Liniel tilted her head, shifting the parchment back and forth in her hands. "But it isn't past to you, is it? You still expect to see them again someday." She made a sudden, mournful sound. "Even your mother."

"And why not my mother?"

"I do not mean to be cruel... but what would become of you in the West? Your identity could never remain secret. Not forever. Some might not be so understanding as I am."

"She loved me," said Findur.

"And yet you caused her much pain." He listened for malice in Liniel's voice, but there was none. Only a kind of unabashed, sympathetic honesty. "Do you think it would be easy for her to see you again?"

Findur surprised himself: he was not angry. Liniel's words only sounded out a hollow space within himself, a place that had always existed. "Burn it, then."

Liniel grasped Findur's hand and smiled reassuringly. "It will be for the best. You'll see." He looked away as she tossed it into the fire, but found himself drawn back immediately. He watched as the parchment slowly burned, and for a moment, it was as if Imladris was again in flames before him, a thousand memories crumbling and turning to ash. Soon, both ring and letter were wholly consumed. Findur closed his eyes briefly, and the flame was quelled, and smoke rose in curls from the ashes. He watched it ascend skyward.

Liniel stood and sat beside him, resting her hand against his shoulder

"We understand each other now. Don't we? All that I did, I did for you, Findur. Whatever harsh words passed between us at our parting... can't we put them behind us? For I've missed you so." She placed her hand against the back of his neck, tilting his head forward and pressing her lips to his. Findur sank into the embrace, and it was a long time before they broke away.

Liniel took his hand. "Why don't you come upstairs," she said softly.

* * *

Naurhir - is Sindarin for "Firelord". In case you didn't get that.

1. Liniel's song is an excerpt of the Lay of Leithian, describing the battle between Finrod and Sauron.


	14. Iron and Gold

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.  
**Timeline:** T.A. 265.  
**Rating (this chapter):** G

**Shadow Child  
Chapter XIV: Iron and Gold**

Within ten minutes of the stranger's departure, a messenger came with a summons to Master Elrond's study.

Little Arwen, who had been receiving a history lesson, was delighted. Celeborn was not. As he made his way out of the library and up through the winding, sunlit halls of Imladris, he wondered what unsavory news Elrond would acquaint him with this time.

He took the longer route to Elrond's study, stopping every so often to admire his surroundings. It was springtime, and every passageway was bathed in a warm light, and every window was flung open upon a breathtaking view of the valley below. It took him back of the woods of Doriath, and to Galadriel, and at the memories he smiled a little, his pain transmuting into a soft, wistful remembrance.

Elrond was sitting at his writing desk when Celeborn arrived, but he was not working. Instead, he was studying an object before him, a great gemstone, milky white, that stood upon a slender base of mithril. It was a gift from Durin III, if Celeborn remembered rightly, a souvenir of the long ago collaboration of Khazad-dûm and the elves of Eregion. It was for such trinkets as these that Celeborn held Elrond's study to be one of the few genuinely beautiful interiors that he had encountered. It was not ridden with portraits or contrived mementos, but merely a collection of haphazard items, unintentionally collected over the years, each with a secret history. There, on the ledge, a crystal pendant of Gondolinian make. Beside it, well polished, a small silver flute... a bowl of rose petals, dried, from a distant spring... a child's watercolor portrait, carefully framed. There were no pretenses. If you saw the room, you knew the man.

At Celeborn's arrival, Elrond looked up, his stern eyes a jarring contrast to his tender surroundings. "Celeborn," he greeted. "Forgive me for interrupting you, but I thought it necessary that we speak. I suspect you know why I called you here."

Celeborn took his usual seat beside the window, smiling a little wryly as he did. "I think I can make a guess. With all of the commotion outside, it was all I could do to restrain Arwen from going out to watch, let alone convince her to heed her studies. What did he want now?"

"She," Elrond corrected. "It was a woman this time, dark of hair, a Silvan accent like the rest. She sent word from her lord in Eregion. Naurhir wants a formal recognition of friendship between our peoples."

Celeborn gave him an incredulous look. "An alliance, you mean! But what did you say?"

"I gave her words of good will so far as my judgment deemed fit," said Elrond. "But it is not my custom to treat with foreign lords of whom I know aught. I do not think my words pleased her, for she left scowling."

"You did well, then. Indeed, what else can we do? If the rumors are true—" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elrond wince, and he stopped. "What is it?"

Elrond did not meet Celeborn's eyes, and Celeborn thought he saw a hint of color in his son-in-law's cheeks. "Yesterday Arnor sent word," he began with difficulty. "There was another raid upon their settlements in the north, and they were able to study their invaders more closely this time. Tall, dark-haired men were they, and much of their armor and weaponry—resembled that of Eregion make."

"I see," said Celeborn faintly.

"I should have alerted you," Elrond continued ruefully. "Forgive me my silence, for I did not want to trouble you with the news."

"There are many things you do not wish to trouble me with," Celeborn observed. "And yet there is no escaping them. Naurhir! It is the name on everyone's tongue. Gondor recognizes him. Durin trades with him. He may as well rule Greenwood; their people leave to join him monthly. And now, he plagues Imladris and Lindon with messengers, begging us to join in alliance with him. There are other rumors, of course. That he treats with men of Gondor... men of Gondor who are reputed to be less than loyal to their king. Should we feign astonishment, then, when such men appear armed and girded in elvish style at Arnor's doorstep?"

"We can make no conclusions," replied Elrond slowly. "But your point is no less valid. We cannot trust him, for truly, we know nothing of him, only that he is powerful."

"Powerful, yes. Or perhaps it is we who are weak," said Celeborn. "Thranduil is departed. His daughter too is gone. His son does not take the throne. And what aid has Imladris given them save strong words of condemnation? Our regard of Gondor has been alike. A kinder gaze upon our friends might have resolved these problems. But now, Naurhir now seems ready to mend them in our stead."

Elrond smiled faintly, shaking his head so that his silver circlet glinted against dark hair. "Celeborn, your practicality always amazes me. Yet I fear there is no solution in this case that we might have presented. What have we done awry? We have offered haven to those in kingless Greenwood, and did not think our offering would be heeded, for the Silvans have done without kings in the past. What more could I do? I still hold Lórimir's death to be a grievous thing; he was no Eöl. But I ostracize no one, and hardly drove them to settle under Naurhir in Eregion. As for Gondor... frankly, it was none of our business." He paused, and looked ready to say more, but instead was silent. He stood and walked to the window, placing one hand on the casement. His gaze fell upon the east, and a despondent look came to his face, as if some troubling, inexpressible truth lay behind his eyes.

"Listen to us, friend," he said finally. "If Naurhir is indeed not to be trusted, we are playing right into his hands. We speak of Greenwood, Imladris, Gondor as if all our problems lay hence—but it is Naurhir and Eregion we must heed." He turned again to Celeborn. "In little more than a decade, he has transformed a barren ruin into a thriving elven kingdom. Eregion has been forged anew—and we do not know the identity of he who rebuilt it! The matter comes down to this: _who is Naurhir_?"

Celeborn sighed, and stood, joining Elrond by the window. "Some among our people, idly speculating, deem it may be a Nazgûl," he offered unhelpfully.

As expected, Elrond gave him a skeptical look. "Surely you are of greater wisdom than they in such matters. For the Nazgûl are creatures of terror and shadow. None of our kind would serve under such a being. Nor would a Nazgûl choose the ruins of Eregion as a dwelling place. If I were to make a guess, I would deem Naurhir..." He paused, and the next words were spoken delicately. "I would deem him an elf, Celeborn."

Celeborn did not reply.

Elrond went on, voice grave. "There is a possibility that has occurred to me. I do not think that you will like it—but it is a possibility that we cannot dismiss." He gave Celeborn a sudden, scrutinizing look. "But you know already my speculations, for they have surely occurred to both of us."

"Elrond—" Celeborn said warningly, hoping to forestall the conversation.

"It has been more than two hundred years since your son left Imladris," Elrond went on, firmly but not unkindly. "His mysterious return of late and subsequent departure speaks nothing good of his condition during those years. Surely he matches the description. Young, idealistic, ambitious... and not a little foolhardy, I fear. The very name is reminiscent of your son - 'the firelord'... I think it is safe to guess that his abilities in the forge have improved—"

"You need not go further," Celeborn interrupted, scarcely able to maintain his composure. "Only a moment ago you accused Naurhir of aiding Arnor's invaders. Now you name Findur?"

"I know that it is difficult. But think, Celeborn. If he was under the thrall of some malevolent force, might he not be persuaded to do these things?"

Celeborn did not reply. What had his son said to him, the day that he left? Ah, yes: _If only a place like Eregion still endured... that I might have the opportunity to forge something truly beautiful!_ He should have followed him. He had wanted to give his son the chance to come to terms with things on his own, to give him the freedom of choice that he deserved. And so he had stood, coldly, pleading in vain...

"It cannot be him," he said finally.

Just as he spoke, there was a knock at the door. Both Elrond and Celeborn started and turned to see the door open and Celebrían's face peek in, wearing a rather bemused expression.

"So, the two conspirators of Imladris are still at it?" she asked lightly. And when she noticed that neither her husband nor her father were looking her straight in the face, she added, "It's all right. I could hear your whole conversation as I was coming down the hall. You must remember not to talk so loudly. But I've come to tell you that luncheon is ready. More precisely, it's been ready for ten minutes now. I hadn't foreseen the need to remind you, seeing as that we've eaten at the same time for more than a hundred years now."

Elrond sighed, his features softening. "Go then, tell Arwen that we're coming." He turned to Celeborn. "I think we've had enough of this for one day."

But Celebrían slipped through the door, closing it behind her. "No,"she said. Her pleasant countenance had been replaced by a veritable ferocity. "I think we should finish it. Now."

"Celebrían, your father—"

"My father is being foolish, and he knows it." As Celeborn began to protest, their eyes met and he felt his resolve fail. Celebrían did not smile, but her eyes were warm and forgiving. "I know that you love him. And I don't want it to be true anymore than you do. But you and I both know that he's perfectly capable of doing what Naurhir has done."

Celeborn felt a pang of guilt rise up within him. She was right, as usual. He pushed away all the objections and angered replies that arose within him. Instead, he murmured a soft, inescapable truth.

"Then I've failed him."

Elrond spoke now. "You've done all that you could," he said. "You and Galadriel raised him well. He must make his own choices now."

"I know that," said Celeborn, and he stared at the wall opposite him, and he tried to recall the sound of his son's voice, but could only recall shrill accusations.

"Come," he heard Celebrían say. "He's right. Enough speculation. Arwen must be wondering where I've disappeared to."

Celeborn managed to smile. "All right." He watched Celebrían reach for her husband's hand as the two left the study. Celeborn followed them, but he lagged behind. Sometimes he would stop to stare out windows or run his hand across railings, marveling, for every corridor seemed now gray and lightless, as if he were viewing it through smoke or a deep water, and for the first time in a hundred years, he fancied himself in a damp, cold, underground place, barred doors spread out endlessly in both directions. And he raced up to one, and clutched a warm hand, but when he looked up, she wasn't there. It was already too late. _He_ had made sure of that long ago.

  


She was curled up in a chair in the corner of his new council room, holding a cup of steaming tea in her hands and watching him pace back and forth behind his desk out the corner of her eye. She didn't want him to know that she was watching him, but she plainly was. It vaguely annoyed him.

"You never told me that Master Elrond was such a handsome man," she noted, smiling slyly.

Findur stopped, looking at her with amused eyes. "Handsome? Maybe, if you can get his nose out of his papers. He's quite the loremaster; you'd never guess him such an accomplished warrior." He shrugged. "Celebrían seemed to like him well enough. But you're changing the subject."

Liniel gave him a knowing look. "If you'd stay on one subject, perhaps I wouldn't have to change it. Sit down at the least. You're making me dizzy."

"Whatever you like," he replied, a little tersely, taking a seat behind the massive desk that took up the greater part of the room. It was covered with sketches and paperwork now, but underneath were boards of palest holly. It was not an easy wood to carve, but the craftsmen of Eregion were skilled, and Findur was particularly pleased with the result. He had little time to admire it, however, before Liniel replied.

"Please, don't make yourself angry," she said. "You'll become perfectly insufferable."

"I'm not angry. I'm just more interested in what Elrond _said_, not what maddeningly unspeakable thoughts you had about him."

"Maddening, murderous thoughts, do you mean? No, I only have those about you, dear."

He tried to smile at her witticism but failed. Instead, the impact of the news she had brought back returned to the forefront of his thouhts. "I can't believe he refused me," he murmured. "I have been nothing but patient and gracious and generous, and yet I receive only hostility! And for what reason, I ask you? Are we not elves, his own kindred? It's madness. After we've taken in the people of Greenwood... revived trade between Khazad-dûm and Eriador... is this how he repays us?"

"It might reassure him to know the identity of the man he's dealing with," Liniel noted dryly.

"No," said Findur. "Not yet. In a little while, maybe, but not yet."

"You're not ready?"

His head snapped up, and he glared at her. "Of course I'm ready! But these things have to be _timed_; I can't simply arrive in Imladris and tell them everything at once!"

Liniel frowned. "You seem to be keeping a great number of secrets for the ruler of a great Elven kingdom. You still haven't told me what you've been doing on your little trips."

"I did tell you," he replied, sorting the piles of papers on his desk as he spoke. "I've been meeting with the Númenoreans."

Liniel snorted. "Númenoreans indeed. Idiot Gondorians is in my mind a better title. But if you insist. I understand that we need them. If they insist on proceeding in their little colonization projects, we might as well go along with it. But what have you spent so much time discussing with Dolgubêl and his crowd? They don't even like elves." A grudging emendation: "Oh, yes, you've built up your facade as the almighty heir of the Dark Lord... aiding him in creating a stronghold in the north that Sauron might man upon his return... the words of friendship, the exchange of goods... but surely he knows that such an alliance can hardly last."

"It will last as long as it has to," he replied, and waited for an angry response.

But he received none. "Of course," Liniel said softly. "But we'll get all we need from them, and they'll dwindle out as they would have otherwise..." She shook her head, smiled. "How we talk! It's all we seem to do nowadays, isn't it? Laws and dictates and endless speech. And you always worrying." She stood and went to his side, resting her hands upon his shoulders. "You've been wonderful. You've accomplished so much, done such things for so many. This business with Imladris will resolve itself too."

"I know," said Findur. After a moment, he added, "I'm going to see Dolgubêl again a few days from now. You can come if you'd like."

"I'd rather not," she replied with an air of distaste. "Do you have to leave so soon?"

Findur did not reply. His work sorted now, he drew up the first sheet, the beginning of plans for the separation of land amongst the most recent newcomers from Greenwood.

"I see," said Liniel tersely.

"I do not mean to be cold," he said, not looking up. "But I do have work to do."

He heard her softly sigh—not angrily, but with a kind of wistfulness. She bent down and pressed her lips against his forehead. "Goodnight, Findur."

Findur vaguely smiled and nodded, shuffling through his papers. Agricultural reports... the precursors of further trade agreements with Khazad-dûm... settlement registrations...

He stopped suddenly, staring at this last parchment. "Liniel, wait! You'll never believe—" But when he looked up, he saw that she had already gone. His glance returned to the words before him. Written neatly in the list of recent settlers was the name _Arandulë_.

  


When he had finished his duties for that night, and had looked in on Liniel to find her asleep, Findur set out for the newest settlement on the eastern border of the city.

As he went, he looked upon the streets of Ost-in-Edhil with a certain pride and wonder. After thousands of years, little more than stone foundations had remained of the ancient city. What had been rebuilt thus far was admittedly a small portion of the city's original grandeur, but it was growing all the time, and always beautiful. The houses and shops were as white as Tirion and carven as finely as the halls of Menegroth, yet it did not lack in vitality. From the swift flow of Sirranon came the faint sound of running water, and golden lamps lit the silent, darkened streets, and everywhere were the dark, broad hollies for which Eregion had been named.

Yet these wide streets were not the only world to be found within Eregion. Here, in the city proper, dwelt the people of Thranduil's halls, those who preferred the comfort and community of such a setting. Also come were the smiths: hewers of stone and shapers of steel, carpenters and jewelers and blacksmiths who had found in Ost-in-Edhil the opportunity to fully practice their trades. But if he walked a little further, following the road to where the trees grew thick, he entered the second world that was Eregion.

Here, the stars shone brightly, though twilight had just fallen, and amongst the scattered trees were small cottages, their boards fresh and often uncaulked. The world was still awake here. Friends gathered in the warm night, sitting upon porches or in the tall grass beneath the stars. Children orbited about their parents in giddy circles, never tiring at their games. Somewhere off in the meadows to the north, Findur could see a flickering red glow and hear faintest singing.

As Findur came into the circle of lamplight that illuminated the houses, eyes followed him. He heard whispers: "Is it him?" "Why, it must be!" "Look how nobly he goes. And how his eyes shine!" It was a rather heady experience, listening to their murmurs wash over him as he passed. And when he met their eyes, they smiled, and some bowed.

It was easy to find Arandulë's house, in spite of the unfortunate habit of the settlers to cite specific trees as land boundaries in the official documents (he really must do something about that). Hers was the only one in a half-mile radius that was already caulked, for it was not yet midsummer and only the most fastidious housekeeper would bother. After spending a few moments looking over the beginnings of a rather patchwork garden, Findur rapped sharply on the door.

He heard footsteps within. "One moment," a familiar voice called. "Who is it, anyway? I was sleeping."

The door latch was unfastened, and Arandulë's head peeked out through the doorway. Upon seeing Findur, her eyes went very wide. She did not say anything for a moment.

"I'm sorry to have woken you," said Findur with a vague smile.

"Oh!" Arandulë shook her head very rapidly. "No, no,"she said in a soft, breathless voice. "Oh, I, I'm just so startled to see you! Some said that you... but I never imagined... I hardly hoped..." Her voice dropped to a tremulous low, and she reddened. "But such a hostess I am," she cried, swinging the door open and ushering him past. "Come in, come in."

Arandulë's house was small but tidy, and the walls and roof were snug. He looked over the sparse, well-crafted furniture, the extraordinarily clean fireplace, the farther room where bed, washstand, and trunk were arranged in simple austerity. Arandulë sat him at a table and began rummaging through a nearby cabinet. "Would you like something to eat?"

"No, thank you, I've—"

"I have some fruit, apples and pears from the orchards—there's some freshly baked bread—"

"Arandulë," Findur managed to interject. "Thank you. I've just eaten a few hours ago."

Arandulë poked her head out of the cabinet. "Oh," she said in slow realization. "Well. All right." She rose and took a place across from Findur. "You must forgive me. I'm very glad to see you. Liniel always said that you had wonderful potential and it's all come true. You've done so much for us."

"She said that?"

She nodded. "Always. And then you both left... and no one knew for certain what had become of you..." Her voice faded, and Findur thought it best to change the subject.

"This house," he said. "It's very well made. Did you build it?"

"With some help," she with a laugh. "I came with a party from the east of the Woods. They passed by on their way across the Mountains. We thought it easiest to build the new houses together."

"It couldn't have been easy. You know, in the future, I think I'd like to begin the development of these areas myself. The newcomers could have houses already built for them."

"That would be nice," Arandulë conceded. She paused and looked down at her clasped hands, resting before her on the table. With a jolt, Findur saw that she wore a slim gold band upon her right index finger.

"Arandulë," he began in wonder, "When—"

But Arandulë spoke then, looking up with her shy gray eyes."Ai, Morfindel, when I said that you had done great things for us—I did not give the matter justice! For everything was so bleak."

"I'm sorry," said Findur. But in his secret thoughts, he was perplexed, as he had been for much of the past years. The people of the Wood had been kingless before, though long ago. What horror could they find now in their simple pastoral lives that might drive them to leave their beloved wood?

He was not so interested in the answer. It was enough that some came, was it not?

"Something has changed," Arandulë went on, as if responding to his silent question. "I can't explain it. Even the ones who did not watch Thranduil fall apart as he did felt it. For we watched Greenwood fall apart just the same. Greater and greater we had become in those last days. You remember—the prosperity. The trade. The palace; remember that one time I came to visit you and Liniel? I had been there once before, with my parents long ago, but this time I could scarcely believe my eyes. I'd never seen such beautiful halls. To watch that die... and the prince go half-mad to the point of insurrection... it was unthinkable. Lórimir, and then Selmë and Ithreth and Thranduil and then _you_, we thought." Then Arandulë looked at Findur, and her solemn expression was replaced by a look of pure joy. "But don't you see! You have given us Eregion. Our Eregion, not the proud Noldor's, but ours, The Silvan people's. We are the Eldar now, the people of the stars—wherefore do the people of Valinor deserve that name!" Her eyes flashed; she was more animated than he had ever seen her. "We are the lords of Middle-earth now, Morfindel. It is as it should have been!" 

"Other things have come to you, it seems," said Findur, smiling upon her golden ring. "Who is he?"

Arandulë sharply drew her hand away. Her eyes were cold. "I told you I came with elves from the halls," she said. "I came alone."

Findur recalled a gentle-faced young man, a painting of a bloodstained beach.

"He would not come," said Arandulë. "We're dying here, Halion, I said, but he would not leave. Nothing can become of us here, I said. He is like all the others, who hope for nothing, who would dwindle and be forgotten. So many of them. But here, we are strong. Though we are few, we are greater than all of them."

And Findur felt his glory rushing away like sand beneath the tide.

"He won't change his mind?" he asked. "Surely he loves you."

"He loves Greenwood more," came Arandulë's faint reply. She sighed, shrugging. Her hair glowed almost blue in the starlit dusk, but her face was red with candlelight. "You'll tell Liniel that I'm here, won't you? To come and see me?"

"Of course. She'll be glad to hear it."

"Well, then." By unspoken agreement, they both stood. "I will not keep you any longer from your work," she said.

"No I you from your sleep," he said with a smile.

Arandulë laughed. "Farewell then, Master Naurhir."

Findur closed his eyes then, though he knew not why. "Call me Morfindel," he said. And he turned and left the little house, closing the door tightly behind him.

  


Far in the north of Eriador, beneath the shadow of the Grey Mountains, there was another settlement.

Unlike Ost-in-Edhil, it did not seem to have much promise of becoming a great empire. The small colony was disorganized and unimpressive. Its villages were scarce, and the majority of its inhabitants were simple peasants, their lives little changed by an upstart lord's decision to call them his people. Its largest city was well fortified but unlovely, an incoherent maze of great stone armaments and patchwork fields. In the center, as if to establish some degree of respectability amidst the chaos, stood a proud but wholly out of place stone tower, tall and white, looking down upon the city with a certain paternal regard.

It was this tower that Findur now approached, giving furtive glances at the landscape about him as he went. It was, he reminded himself, better than the last time that he had visited the settlement. True, the Gondorians—or Nümenoreans, as they now insisted on being called—ere not so concerned with aesthetics, but their economic and military strength were not lacking, even after such a short time in their new home.

He stopped some way from the tower, descending from his horse, a magnificent silver stallion that had been gifted by Dolgubêl like most of Eregion's steeds. He turned and nodded to his companions, catching Arandulë's eye in particular. Having little work to do in this prosperous season, she had begged him for some way that she might service him. He had finally acquiesced, allowing her to be one of the party to the settlement. He knew that he could trust her, and now he watched with amusement at her wonder and confusion at her surroundings.

As they dismounted, the two steel-clad guards who had been silently flanking them since their arrival became suddenly animated. "Come with me," said one. "I will lead you to the stable." When they had gone, taking Findur's horse with them, the other stepped forward. "I am Maedír. I will bring you to Lord Dolgubêl."

Findur gave him a strange look. "Maedír. But that's Sindarin."

Maedír shrugged sheepishly. He was a young man, and as he led Findur towards the tower, Findur saw that his manner was not so sternly unemotional as guards were wont to be. "I am Arnorian. I know that some of us have a reputation for disliking your people, but it's a foolish tradition. Lord Dolgubêl tells us that we must cooperate with your people to achieve greatness. We only want to be true Númenoreans—not weak and bound to serve the weak, forever underneath the shadow of Elendil. We want equality with the elves rather than mindlessly revering them as the so-called 'Faithful' have. And Dolgubêl says that you can help us do that." Maedír led him up the steps and into the tower, shrugging again. "And it's not as if I can change my name."

Things were different in Angmar. That, at least, was clear.

Findur found himself being escorted up a winding staircase. A narrow corridor followed, terminating with a wide door of dark wood. Maedír halted at the top of the stairs, ushering Findur past him.

"Lord Dolgubêl waits," he said solemnly.

Findur nodded, proceeding down the corridor. Behind him, he heard Maedír descend the stairs, presumably to allow his conversation with Dolgubêl to take place in complete privacy. Meanwhile, he heard the click of a key and saw a line of light between the door and its frame grow as it creaked open. And so Dolgubêl made his appearance, clutching the doorknob and wincing in the glare of the light that streamed over his shoulders with an expression that fell somewhere between admiration and dislike. In the light, Findur saw that the Gondorian noble had aged since he had last seen him. His dark hair was streaked with gray, and his skin had a certain thin, worn quality that seemed to prefigure the distress it would face in old age.

"Hello, Naurhir," he said, as if greeting an old friend. "Come in, won't you?" He turned before Findur could answer and led him into the little room that Findur presumed was some kind of office or study. Its unfinished walls were crowded with shelves and books and maps and piles of opened letters, and the narrow windows gave a poor view of the rest of the settlement. But there was light, and a threadbare tapestry that lent its rosy hues to the room, and a small round table in the center at which Dolgubêl now sat, nodding for Findur to do likewise.

"I hope the journey was not too difficult?" he asked in a disinterested voice.

Age had done other things to Dolgubêl, Findur observed as he took a seat across from the lord of Angmar—it had softened him, weakened his resolve. How few years it had been since the proud Gondorian had detested elves, hesitating even at Findur's friendship when he had learned that the Heir of Sauron, the nebulous redeemer of all good Númenoreans, was but an elf himself! If Maedír had not demonstrated the shift in ideologies, surely Dolgubêl himself was proof of the change. _But two can play this game of compromise_, thought Findur. _In the end, mortal, it is you who must lose._

"It was fine, thank you," he replied. "You have done well since I last saw you. This building was not here when I last came to Angmar."

Angmar... the name had been Curuan's idea. Quite a joke, to name this rabble-hole something as ostentatious as "Iron-fortress". But Dolgubêl seemed to like it well enough.

"We've done adequately," Dolgubêl replied. "I see that your advice was not wholly in vain. We have forged ties with the subversives in Arnor as you suggested. Not all of them are Dúnedain, you know. There are rustics, hill-men, in the north and east. The guard who escorted you was one of such. And others are yielding to us." The old man smiled at his victories. "Jealousy abounds in the royal court, and ambition. The heir apparent's own cousin is ours—"

What tiring jabber! Findur was always astonished at Dolgubêl's fascination with the intricacies of his own politics. "It does not matter," he interrupted loudly.

Dolgubêl stopped, looking up with strange eyes. "What do you mean? Of course it—"

"I think," Findur went on, "that I've spent long enough listening to your intrigues. I did not come here to listen to you babble. You've been raiding. Tell me why."

The lord of Angmar looked annoyed. "This is my kingdom," he said with dignity. "The movement of my troops—"

"This is not about you, Dolgubêl!" cried Findur. "Don't you understand? It was _I_ who installed you here, not out of any deep-seated concern for your wellbeing, but in order to further your service to the Dark Lord. You are not here to become prosperous, or powerful, and indeed, you are neither of these things. What, do you think your victories over Arnor great? That kingdom has been collapsing for centuries; you have only accelerated the process." His own words startled and amused him; was he trying to prevent bloodshed or actually further the so-called purposes of Sauron? Dolgubêl certainly believed the latter. "It was I," he went on, "who supplied you with arms—"

"For no small amount of goods in return," muttered Dolgubêl testily.

"—and now you raid Arnor aimlessly, as if this were _your_ war to fight? Do you really have so little faith in my commands?"

Dolgubêl shook his head miserably. "Of course not, Naurhir. But we were in need of supplies—"

"Then you might have asked Eregion for aid! We are yet small, but with the assistance you gave us at the onset, we have become prosperous. We do not begrudge you help in return."

"Of course." Dolgubêl did not quite look Findur in the eye, and he was reminded that, no matter how subservient the mortal lord appeared to be, he could never trust him completely. There was a reason he had, unknown to Dolgubêl, scattered companies around the settlement to watch his ally's movements. Still, he was beginning to wonder if there wasn't something to the lie he had fed Angmar. Instead of allowing Dolgubêl's people to dwindle now that their usefulness as moneylenders was over, why not actually sustain this farfetched little colony? If Arnor indeed fell of its own accord, why not have an obedient Angmar in its place?

"Now, Findur said slowly, smiling at Dolgubêl, "What provisions do you need? I'm sure I can help you."

  


Northern Eregion looked strange in the early morning light: a bit ghastly, really. The meadows swayed ghostlike in the wind, each individual stalk silhouetted against a pale sky. Everything seemed honed down to the sum of its parts, mere configurations of shapes and hues in a three-dimensional space. Even the birdsong seemed to have a dull, mechanical air.

Some hours passed, and they arrived in Ost-in-Edhil. Their travel had been unbroken since the previous morning, and it was a reassuring sight to Findur's weary eyes. A guard hailed him from the rebuilt section of the walls, and gates swung open to permit his entrance. Findur dismounted, and a servant led his horses to the stables with the others. The streets were silent, the city yet asleep. Curuan too would be resting. No need to wake him. The reports could wait. He was tired but fully alert after the night's ride. Some time at the forge would do him well.

"If anyone needs me, I'll be in my shop," he told Arandulë.

Arandulë, who had been softly coaxing her stubborn horse to follow the others, looked up. "At this hour? I, for one, am going home and sleeping through the day. Or I may work on my sewing, I'm so behind... Unless you need me, of course," she added quickly.

"No. Go home and rest. Just give the message to one of the guards."

"Yes, my lord." Arandulë had taken to using the title occasionally, and he could hardly object, for it was a valid usage. "Good day, Morfindel."

They parted, and Findur made his way through the wide empty thoroughfares of the ever-growing city. Finally he came to the forge, a large building of white stone that stood apart from the rest.

He had given little thought to what he would do when he arrived, but as he walked inside and saw the rows of benches and ovens and shelves and storehouses of metal and coal, and, in the middle of the far wall, the forge itself, anvils before it, he knew immediately.

He worked swiftly but carefully, heeding little but the intricacies of metalworking: hit just so, bend thus, wait for this long. With each pound of his hammer, sparks flew, and the yellow slab of gold began to shape itself into a thick gold band. From there it took on finest etchings, convex diamonds between two outer bands, and in their centers shone many-pointed stars. When these were complete, heat was again applied, and the whole was bent into a circlet.

When he had finished, he gingerly drew up the circlet with a pair of tongs, placing it upon a nearby table to cool. Then he took a seat nearby, stretching his tired limbs and looking upon the object of his labors with pleasure.

He had almost drifted off to sleep when he heard Liniel outside—he could recognize the sound of her footfalls against the unpaved road. A moment later, she burst into the room.

"You might have told me that you had arrived," she began when she was but halfway through the door. "Arandulë woke me up, asking if I had any spare embroidery needles. Embroidery needles, at five o'clock in the morning, and no notice on my husband's whereabouts, only to find that he's off working on his ridiculous proj— Ai!" For in her ranting Liniel had strayed towards the table where the circlet lay, and had tried to pick up the yet searing metal before he could warn her against it.

"Are you all right?" he asked hurriedly, glancing towards the pitcher of water he kept at hand in case of such emergencies and wondered if the moment warranted it.

"It's nothing," said Liniel, inspecting the burnt skin. "It hasn't even blistered. I may not have your calluses, but I'm not the weak article that you take me for."

"I didn't—" He shook his head, turning away. There was no point to arguing with her when she was in this sort of temper. "Come here. Let me at least look at it."

"What for? Have you become a healer now as well?"

Findur gave her a critical look. He stood and went to her side. Liniel grudgingly allowed him to inspect the burnt fingers. "You might have warned me," she grumbled.

"I didn't expect you to pick it up. You know better than that."

"Excuse me for being absentminded," Liniel replied sharply, pulling her hands away. A few moments later, she added, "Will you stop that?"

Findur had been fiddling with a half-finished candlestick that one of the smiths must have begun in his absence. He placed it on a nearby table. It promptly rolled to one side and fell to the ground with a clank.

"Sorry," he apologized emptily.

But Liniel wasn't listening. "I told you not to follow me," she said in a low voice. It was only after a moment that he realized her words directed themselves not to him, but instead to the hunched figure in the doorway.

Curuan straightened up as much as he could, stepping forward into the room. "Come, Liniel, I'm only here to check on your progress. I was afraid you might forestall the conversation. Wouldn't want to cause a dispute, would we?" His eyes shifted to gauge Findur's response. "And I was right. He doesn't know."

"What are you talking about?" Findur demanded.

But Curuan ignored him, going to the table and taking up the now-cool circlet in his hands. "So this is your newest project? It's very good craftsmanship."

Findur snatched the circlet from Curuan's feeble grasp. "Forestalling, you say? If whatever you must talk to me about is so important, then tell it to me!" He turned to see Liniel regarding Curuan with a strange look. "Stop staring at him!" he cried without thinking.

Liniel blinked. "What are you—I wasn't—"

"Why were you speaking with him to begin with? You said you were with Arandulë. There were to be no more secrets, Liniel; that was our agreement—"

"Agreement? It's all contracts to you now, Findur, isn't it?" She shook her head in disbelief, turning to Curuan. "You tell him. He won't listen to me."

"Findur," Curuan instructed slowly and not without humor, "sit down and let us discuss matters of state as thoughtful adults rather than the intractable infants that we are showing ourselves to be."

Findur didn't answer. As he took a seat beside the anvil, he placed the circlet experimentally upon his head. It fit admirably, just as he had intended. Curuan seated himself upon a nearby stool, but Liniel stood, crossing her arms before her and regarding the whole scene with rather hostile eyes.

"What Liniel neglected to mention, and the source of this absurd argument, is the appearance of a quite singular envoy at our border only a few days ago."

"Oh?"

"Imladris has sent word. They request an audience with you."

"I see," Findur said, though his mind was spinning. "Well... then... Let word be sent in the affirmative, and preparations to be made for their company's arrival. I shall show Imladris my good favor, and hope for theirs in return."

"Oh, Findur, don't be a fool." It was Liniel who spoke. She stepped forward and knelt down before him, running her fingers across his circlet and smoothing the dark locks of hair beneath. At her touch, Findur felt his entire body relax. But the words that followed produced exactly the opposite effect. "Elrond isn't volunteering to come here. He wants you to go to Imladris."

"Only a few months ago," said Curuan, "the thought held a certain distaste, did it not? If you are not ready—"

"I am ready." He said it, and it was so. He found himself rising from his chair. "What, do you think that I can negotiate with the likes of Dolgubêl and shirk when my own brother-in-law summons me for speech?"

"Findur," said Liniel warningly. "Don't put yourself in uncomfortable situations. There's no need for it. If you don't want to go—"

"I can go."

"So he says," Curuan muttered. "We'll see if he feels the same when he sees the look in his father's eyes."

"Don't call him that!" cried Findur, giving Curuan a furious glare. "This is not your decision. I am the lord of Eregion, and I will negotiate as I see fit. I will not be a puppet, Curuan, and I will not yield to your endless wailing. An infant, you call me? You are the child, helpless and weak, always harrying and bleating and calling the noise a skilled tongue."

And he thought he saw something akin to fear in the old man's face, and was glad.

But Curuan quickly regained whatever composure he had lost. "You have learned from me well, Lord Naurhir," he said, and he smiled, and then left.

Findur was left standing in the center of the room, staring at the door as it swung on its hinges.

"You believe me, don't you?" he asked Liniel, who was yet sitting before him.

"Go home and go to bed, Findur," she said, rising and clearing the tools from his workspace. "The morning's half over. If you sleep now, you'll be able to begin on your work before dinner."

He caught a glimpse of her hands as she walked past him. The skin on the burnt fingers was beginning to blister.

"Your finger," he said. "You—"

"I lied?" Liniel finished critically. "You saw the burn for yourself. Blisters don't always appear right away, you know. I misjudged."

"You seem to be doing that in abundance today."

"So do you," she replied coolly. "Go to bed."

For the first time that morning, he couldn't think of any reason to argue.


	15. Necromancer

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.  
**Timeline:** T.A. 265  
**Rating (this chapter):** PG-13 for language and references to rape.

**Shadow Child**  
**Chapter XV: Necromancer**

At the break of the day, when the sky was a pale, clear blue and the sound of gulls could be heard from the bank of the Ringló, the messenger arrived.

He was of elven-kind, that was certain, though he was sterner-faced than many. His dark hair flowed behind him as his steed galloped down the road that wound its way from the Ered Nimrais to the meeting of the rivers. Something about his face and poise was vaguely familiar, Legolas thought, with a grace and a sharpness to his eyes that bespoke nobility. He had known someone, once, with those eyes. He couldn't think who.

The rider halted some yards away and dismounted. He nodded in greeting, and Legolas returned the gesture, if not without trepidation. He hoped there was no business with which he was to be troubled.

But why was he in such a foul mood? It was a beautiful day. If business had come, then it had come. He had hoped not to fall into another slump of despair, not so soon after the last one. It was insufferable, living one's life from gloomy year to gloomy year, when the world was so lovely and there was so much to see.

Lovely, yes, but the sorrow was there nonetheless, bleak and inescapable, a wasteland waiting to consume him.

He shook his head and attended the rider, who approached him now with a keen, intelligent expression. "I am seeking the Prince of Greenwood," he said, betraying little emotion.

Business.

"Then you have come to the wrong place," Legolas replied just as coolly. His heart was racing. "The Prince of Greenwood is dead, and I, who once held that title also, am no longer of that realm."

"Then you are Legolas, Thranduil's son?" asked the rider.

"None other." Ruefully, it occurred to him that his tone was ungracious, if not blatantly hostile. "Forgive me," he amended, "if I do not greet you with words of kindness. I mean no injury. But I am no longer of Greenwood, and am no longer concerned with its business."

"That much I have heard."

Legolas found his eyes narrowing. "You seem to know much of me. But what of you? Who are you, and what brings you here?"

"Forgive me," said the rider. "I am Elrohir, Elrond's son. I come with word from him concerning larger matters in this world. Many things have come to pass since you retreated to this land."

And so it began. Legolas tried not to look too miserable.

"Before I speak further," said Elrohir, "my horse is wearied from the journey. Though I cannot stay more than a few hours, I would tend to her needs. Surely there are stables in Edhellond?"

"Yes," replied Legolas, feeling his manner relax. "Only a half-mile hence." He motioned to the road as it wound towards the main settlement. "And you? Surely I can offer you refreshment?"

Elrohir brushed the thought away with a shake of his hand. "I ate only a little while ago, and am untired." He placed a hand against the glistening gray flank of his steed. "But let us go then, and I can tell you of the business that has brought me here."

"Do not expect me to be grateful for its coming," Legolas warned him. But his animosity was at this point merely show. He could not help but like this rider, whose manner encompassed the gentility of Elves and the straightforwardness of Men.

"I did not expect it," replied Elrohir easily, and both suddenly smiled, and began the walk to the stable.

"I did not know that Elrond had a son," noted Legolas as they walked. In all truth, he had heard little of Imladris, or any other place, for that matter, for many years. Not since he was a child, really, and in those days he had had little interest in far lands and their affairs.

"Two, actually," Elrohir corrected. "I have a brother, Elladan. He is on other business now. And we have a sister, Arwen. Now I am amazed that you have not heard of her; her reputation for being the terror of Imladris is surely famous." He chuckled at his own recollections. Legolas could only surmise what thoughts now filled his mind: old childhood pranks, perhaps; amusing family episodes whose humor was limited in the eyes of outsiders.

Legolas's gaze fell blankly upon the horizon. He thought of his own sister, Ithreth. He thought of Lórimir.

"Your business, then," he said softly.

Elrohir studied Legolas's face. "It is hardly a tale for bright skies and pleasant company," he said. "And you look out of spirits. But I will speak of it as frankly and swiftly as I may.

"Another war, however brief, seems to be on its way. For some years, Arnor has been the subject of constant raids, and a pressure at its north-eastern border. A new people dwell there, Black Númenoreans, perhaps, or men at least whose loyalty to the sons of Elendil was passing fleet. Other men are with them, rustics and Hill-men, and it seems that they are seducing even Arnorians, rivals of the court whose ambitions have pushed them to treason. Elrond has pledged his support to Arnor if war indeed comes."

"And what has this to do with me?" asked Legolas dubiously.

Elrohir frowned. "A... complication seems to have arisen. It is increasingly clear that this upstart people are not without outside aid. That... the new settlement in Eregion has been providing that aid."

They had come to the stable now. Legolas halted before its doors. For a moment he could not speak.

"Tell me," he murmured after a time, "that this is some terrible mistake. Tell me it is not true..."

"I am afraid I cannot do that. We have seen Arnor's invaders in the very livery of Eregion. There can be little mistake."

"I see." Vacantly, Legolas led Elrohir into the stable. The gray horse trotted after them.

Legolas gave instructions to the stablemaster on the care of Elrohir's steed. The two then left the stable, sitting themselves side by side on a bale of hay.

"They would not do it." Legolas realized that anger stirred in his heart, an anger like he had not felt for years uncounted. "Is this what Elrond thinks of the people of Greenwood? What... what my father did has nothing to do with my people, a peaceful people, and honorable. Did we not die beside the Noldor and Sindar, upon the Dagorlad? Why do you judge us so harshly?"

He turned to find Elrohir smiling softly.

"_Your_ people," he repeated. "That is what I hoped you might say. But you have judged wrongly. Imladris holds no grudge against your people, even those in Eregion. Of course they would not treat with Arnor's enemies knowingly. But we know little of this leader of theirs, this Naurhir. My father does not trust his intentions. If he somehow managed to deceive him..."

"That is ridiculous," said Legolas. "I have less knowledge of Naurhir than you do. He is only a name to me. I have not dwelled in Greenwood since childhood, and cannot fathom what kind of leader might direct its people to such a place. A Noldo, maybe, and perhaps one of little discretion, as the Noldor of Eregion have proved themselves in earlier times. But still an Elf."

"Maybe you are right," said Elrohir. "Maybe Naurhir is an Elf. But a malicious Elf, then, or one easily beguiled. In my knowledge, one such there has not been since Maeglin, but nothing is impossible."

Idly, Legolas plucked a straw from the bale he sat on, twisting it in his fingers. "I still don't understand what you want me to do," he said shortly. "Why are you telling me all of this?"

Elrohir paused for a moment. "Elrond has not committed any force to Arnor yet," he said. "Indeed, Arnor has not yet decided to act, and even if they do, he must investigate the situation more thoroughly. But if this becomes more than a border skirmish... if this new settlement calls upon Eregion, its ally, for aid..."

"Elf will not fight elf," said Legolas. "Eregion will not fight."

"They will not fight elves," said Elrohir. "But that does not mean they will not fight at all. If Naurhir convinces them that Arnor is their enemy, and does not warm them of Imladris's participation, they will march. Even if there is no armed conflict between my people and yours - and Imladris will lay down its arms if such a thing seems likely - only sorrow can come of this, Legolas, and enmity where it need not exist."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Return home," said Elrohir earnestly. "I know you have suffered, friend. And I know you are yet young. But your people need you. Take the crown and lead the emigrants in Eregion back from their folly."

Legolas couldn't think of a word to say. His first reaction was a vehement "no". Return to Greenwood? All that he could recall seemed like so many bad memories. His brother's death. His mother's grief over the loss of her son. Her estrangement from his father. And then, departure, leaving everything he had known. Even here, his only sorrows had emerged from Greenwood. Mother's, Ithreth's, his father's departure. He thought back to that night, the night that Legolas had forgiven him. Father had asked him to take the crown. "You are my heir," he had said.

"You will have no heirs," Legolas had replied, and the wounds that had lain between them were at that moment sharp and apparent as they had ever been.

He realized that he wanted to go back.

He loved Greenwood. He loved the forest, endless and beautiful and unchanging, and the people, his people. In his sorrow, he did not mourn what he had found there, beneath the trees of his home, but what he had lost. He had lost Greenwood, its beauty warped by the grandeur that his father had insisted on in the days before Lórimir's death. Warped by the loss of his brother. Of his family.

He could not call them back. But what else could he do... sit in Edhellond and rot until the world's end? He hadn't understood until now why he had not followed the others into the West. Now he knew. He was still in love with Middle-earth.

"I'll go," he said, and for the first time since he had come to Edhellond, a spark of hope lit in his heart.

Elrohir sprang up from his makeshift seat. "I am glad." He began for the stable.

Legolas was a bit startled. "You're leaving already?"

"As I said," said Elrohir, "I do not have much time." He turned to look back at Legolas. "My father will send word if anything more is required of you. You would do best to ride to Lórinand now. Some of your people dwell there under Amroth, and if all goes well, others will be joining them soon. You can take counsel with Amroth, and proceed from there as you think best." He paused. "You are ready?"

"I think so. Yes." His head was reeling as he watched Elrohir enter the stable. Preparations must be made, and messages sent, and... would they receive him, the people he had left behind? Who would listen to him, the youngest son of a king who had abandoned his kingdom? Even if they did, what could he possibly do to save the people of Eregion from their own madness?

A few moments later, Elrohir rode out upon his horse. Legolas bid him farewell. Images of woods and fires and banners fluttered through his mind. And as Elrohir sped away towards the horizon, Legolas lifted his long hand and cried, "May Elbereth protect you!", and he knew not why.

  


The night before he was to leave, Curuan had approached him after dinner.

"Meet me tomorrow before dawn," the old man had told him. "I will be waiting in the shop. Do not speak to anyone of our meeting."

Now Findur dressed in his darkened room. The air was cold and still, and his every movement seemed to make an unbearable amount of noise. He glanced sideways at Liniel's sleeping form, at the dark hair that framed her face. He felt a spasm go through his body, the vaguest intimation of fear.

Once he had dressed, his clothing like a coarse, ill-fitting shroud about bare skin, he slipped through the door to the courtyard. Across the yard, the street ran like a sleek white snake through the blue-black night. He walked out upon it and began for the shop. His every movement seemed mechanical, like the smooth, systematic motion of a forge-bellows.

And how silent the night was! It was as if time had stopped, and he alone forged on into the emptiness. He was keenly aware of his own potential, the strength of his hands, the span of his step, the acuity of his mind. His body was a pulsing center, arcs of possibility radiating out into the waiting void. Break a branch, and all would be complete.

The door of the shop was open. Findur entered slowly. He scanned the darkened interior, picking out Curuan amidst the clutter. The old man supported himself by gripping one of the tall white pillars that were mathematically arranged about the space Around him, strange and lovely silhouettes posed in the darkness, tables and tools and anvils which, in mere minutes, would become their ordinary, daylight selves.

"Sit," said Curuan. The hand that clutched the pillar was shaking; whether from fear or from physical weakness, Findur did not know.

"Why?" asked Findur, his voice strong and clear. He felt the sense of power within him growing. It coursed through him, running through the muscles of his arms, into his hands, waiting, waiting for release.

"Sit," said Curuan. He drew closer, resting on a nearby stool.

Findur shrugged. "All right." He took a seat beside Curuan. "Why have you called me—?"

Curuan interrupted him. "Wait."

Findur waited. The room was silent. Too silent. He could hear his own heart beating within him like a drum.

"I don't understand," he said. He gazed out into the darkness. He felt the separateness of his body, shrouded in the darkness like a lonely corpse.

"Wait," said Curuan.

_Look at me. Even this body, strong, healthy, unblemished, is nothing but a shroud... a shell._

"A shell. Hmm. Poetic, yes. And true, you are strong. But you overestimate yourself, Findur."

The voice was not Curuan's.

Findur froze then. His hands clenched upon the sides of his chair, and he could not relax his grip. He felt something within him, or with him, or around him, not a thing, but a presence, a fire and a shadow and a voice, and it had spoken his name.

With a start, he understood.

"Sauron," he whispered.

  


Curuan was chuckling softly when it was over.

"So, Findur," he said slowly, "do you understand now?"

Findur looked up. For a moment, he was startled. Curuan's face was smoother. He sat erect on his stool. And his thin, scraggly hair was now a thick gray.

But it was just like the Voice had said. Power was a force, to be given, to be received. The power that had bound Curuan, that had clothed him in that mask, had simply returned to the source.

Curuan had spoken, but he was not looking at Findur. Instead, he was looking at his hands, strong hands, in the sunlight. Sunlight, for it was dawn now, and a pale light streamed through the windows. How long had Findur sat here, motionless, taking in the secrets and truths that he had sought for so long?

Now, in the early morning light, he understood the fragments of memory that lay behind him, and understood what they meant, and what he was. He had seen the pattern, the significance, the inevitability of his life. What had struck Findur the most, however, was the last thing that the Voice had shown him.

He had seen the end of the world.

  


He had to say, it was not quite what he had expected. There was no final battle, no cataclysmic blow. No real end at all, for that matter. It just... withered.

Entropy. There was no word for it in the Elven tongue. And yet he had seen it for himself. He had seen the universe, and he had seen Arda, one speck amidst a swirling whirlwind. Chaotic and magnificent it had seemed to him, but utterly irredeemable.

Arda's fate was death by fire. Nothing impressive. Just a gradual decline, and the sun's slow swelling to a great red flame, a flame that consumed the turning world easily, like a candle might extinguish a moth.

That was the end that Sauron's Voice had showed him.

And Eä itself? Ilúvatar's beloved creation, grand and glorious though it was, merely thinned out, and cooled, and stopped, a cold unmoving graveyard of dead stars and dark worlds.

There was no end, only an end to beauty, and no death but the death of everything worth living for.

  


"Do you understand?" Curuan had asked, and his words rang out into the stone hall.

Yes, he understood the logistics of it: Curuan had been Sauron's all along, and so, for that matter, had Findur. Oh, Celeborn had spoken of free will, and Galadriel of the new life she would make for her precious son, but both had grievously underestimated the reach of the Dark Lord's hand. What sort of fool would place his most secret weapon in a poorly defended dungeon at the outer perimeter of his realm?

The Lord of Mordor had not merely planned for the possibility of Galadriel's rescue. He had counted on it. Findur had been a provision, useless if Mordor was victorious, but incalculably precious if it did not. Thus had things fallen, and therefore had Findur survived, nurtured in Imladris, molded by Curuan, served by the Black Númenoreans of a new Northern realm, and ever preparing the way for Sauron's return.

Findur had not evaded the Dark Lord's machinations. He was the very result of them.

He mused on this last appellation. "Dark" was not a fitting title. Fire was Sauron's power, the power that Findur himself would share in. So much for free will! There was really no choice to be made. Finally, he was free not to choose, to become what he undeniably was.

Ilúvatar had abandoned Arda. The Valar had retreated. Sauron was the lord of this world. A choice? Yes, there was a choice, and like Curuan had said all along, it was one between powers, between strength and weakness, destiny and oblivion.

He had seen the fate of the Eldar, and it was a slow and steady dwindling, a fading that could not be halted. Not without power...

He looked up at Curuan once more. "I understand," he said, and rose, relaxing his grip on the chair.

Curuan rose in kind, standing nearly as tall as Findur himself. His keen eyes gleamed. "He is insubstantial now, and yet weak, but it will not always be so. He will bring you to great things, Findur. And such a little thing in return. That you prepare the path for him."

"_And all paths are drowned deep in shadow_," Findur murmured. (1)

"Excuse me?" said Curuan.

Findur was unsettled himself. That was not something the Voice had said. But it had come to him nonetheless, like a voice in a dream.

"Nothing," he said. He turned and started for the door.

"Findur."

Findur whirled around. Curuan was watching him with the same even gaze.

"All will go well with Elrond, will it not?"

He nodded. "Of course."

"Very well." Curuan strode forward without limp or bow. "We shall go out together, then?" He smiled. His teeth were smooth and white.

"Together," Findur agreed. Curuan stepped forward. Findur opened the door. And together they walked out into the streets of Ost-in-Edhil, streets that gleamed white as snow.

  


He left early as planned, with two of his guard as escort. Arandulë had begged to be among them, but he had insisted that she stay behind. "Liniel will go mad without your company," he had told her. "You know how restless she was the last time we both went away." His personal reasons were simpler. He did not want Arandulë to be involved.

Liniel had already risen and left by the time he had returned home for his bags. He was a little glad of it, and made no effort to find her. He knew that she would see it, see the transformation in his eyes. She couldn't know yet. He didn't know how to tell her, what words to use. She might not understand him if he tried.

Curuan would remain behind as usual, acting as steward of Eregion. Of course, Findur had no doubt that the man could travel if need be, in his new condition. He wondered how long it would take for others to notice the subtle changes in his appearance. And if the Voice returned, and even more of the curse was removed?

It wouldn't matter soon, he told himself. Soon, everything would be in order. Soon, there would be no more lies.

  


It was raining as Findur and his escort rode down into Imladris, a warm, gentle rain that, although unlooked for in late spring, was not unagreeable. After days of riding through the bland flatlands north of Ost-in-Edhil, finding himself in this green, rainy valley was a refreshing change, albeit a wet one. He did not heed his damp hair and clothing, but his hand automatically went to his sword hilt. Once he made certain that his cloak adequately protected the weapon from rain, he relaxed, sinking into his saddle, content to be soaked. The horses slowed to a trot. The road sloped ever downward, and Findur felt his spirits rise.

What a relief it was, to finally arrive, for something to finally happen! For four nights, he had hardly slept, lying in fields or beside scattered trees, staring up at the stars. Fear had not kept him awake, but restlessness. He wanted to get everything done with at once, for the inevitable future to become irrevocable past. He wanted fulfillment, the broken branch. Then he could go home, and sleep, with Liniel in his arms.

They came to the bridge. The noise of the Bruinen rushing beneath it mingled with the sound of falling rain. Findur found it strange that no one had stopped to greet them yet. But Imladris had many eyes. Surely Elrond knew that he was here, and would greet him exactly when he wanted to greet him.

Findur was thankful, at least, for the cover of rain. The people of Imladris were inside. He could not have borne so soon the eyes, the whispers. "Look! Celeborn's son!" they would say, always staring.

They passed over the narrow bridge and started up the path to the house. As Findur had anticipated, Elrond acted with calculated precision. As they approached the house, a man came towards them, motioning for them to halt and dismount.

They stopped. Findur nodded, and he and his party dismounted. He stepped forward.

"Hello," he greeted.

The man nodded in kind. He was one of the stablemasters. Findur had known him all his life. "Welcome, Master Naurhir. Would you allow me to escort your steeds to the stables?" A second elf appeared behind him. "Erelas will escort you and your party into the house."

Findur smiled vaguely at his childhood friend. Erelas, for his part, was stern and unemotional. He seemed not to recognize the young man he had planted and weeded with two hundred years ago.

"Of course," said Findur to both of them. "Thank you." He allowed himself to be escorted up the path that he knew so well. The rest of his party followed, oblivious to the confusion that lay beneath Findur's cool indifference.

As they walked, Findur tried to sort out exactly what was happening. He glanced at Erelas and found him staring stonily ahead. He and the stablemaster had obviously been made aware of the possibility of encountering Findur, and had been advised to regard him as a stranger. How could Elrond have possibly known ahead of time? Had Findur really been so sloppy, or was this a last minute decision? And what was the meaning of this pointless charade? Was such ostracism some ridiculous show of hostility? Well, it certainly made things simpler. He did not relish explaining to his men why Naurhir Morfindel, who had enough names as it was, was suddenly being referred to as Findur by apparent strangers.

Erelas led them into the house. A vague sense of foreboding settled over Findur as he followed. They passed through the front rooms quickly, but enough time there was still for Findur to feel the eyes run over his form and hear the voices whisper, "Look! It's him, it is Findur, Celeborn's son..."

Findur glanced at his men. If they had heard, they showed no sign of it.

Soon they stopped before a door. Erelas opened it and turned to Findur. "These will be your sleeping quarters. You will be summoned when Master Elrond wishes to speak with you."

Findur was ushered into the room. The door was shut. He heard Erelas lead the others to adjacent rooms, and then silence.

He looked around him. The room was unremarkable, one of many spare bedrooms on the southern end of the first floor. It was sparsely furnished but elegant. Findur sighed and set his traveling bag on the floor. His cloak fell beside it, and he placed his sword and scabbard carefully on top of the cloak. Then he took a seat upon the bed, and tried in vain to analyze this unexpected reception.

He did not know what he had expected. To take Imladris by surprise with his return? As much as he hated to admit it, it was Elrond who had the upper hand. He still did not have a clear idea of why he had been summoned. Could Elrond have already known that he, Findur, would be coming? If not, then what, after all these years? Did Imladris fear Ost-in-Edhil's prosperity, its growing control over Eregion, its amity with Khazad-dûm? He wouldn't be so surprised. They did tend to be a paranoid folk.

He lay back on the bed, one hand against his abdomen and the other beneath his head, wondering and waiting until exhaustion sent him into a deep sleep.

  


He was woken a little past sunset by a knock on the door. "Come in," he said as he rose.

It was a woman this time, one of Celebrían's friends, although Findur couldn't recall her name. She carried a tray laden laden with dishes and tureens, all delicious smelling.

"This is your dinner," said the woman matter-of-factly, entering the room and setting the tray on a table. "If you require anything else, do not hesitate..." Her voice faltered. She looked up, her eyes betraying unexpected emotion.

"It's really you," she said.

He nodded once in the affirmative, not daring to speak.

"Well, then," she went on, her voice once again businesslike, but curter, "I'm not supposed to address you like this, but you know where the kitchens are, and I tire at repeating it. My chambers, if you have forgotten, are at the end of the hall. If you need anything and can't get it for yourself, come and find me."

Elbrennil. Her name was Elbrennil.

"Did my sister send you to spy on me?" he asked quite suddenly.

Elbrennil laughed. "You must be joking. If Celebrían wanted to see you, she would come herself." She paused, and added softly, "Elrond will see you in the morning."

"You weren't supposed to tell me that," he observed.

"I see little reason to keep you in the dark. " Elbrennil shrugged indifferently. "Good evening, Findur." She turned and left, leaving him alone again.

"Good night," Findur murmured to no one. He sat down before his meal, lifting a few of the lids and evaluating his options. Unbidden, Elbrennil's words returned to him. _If Celebrían wanted to see you..._

She hadn't come. His sister didn't want to see him at all.

  


Findur woke a few hours after dawn. He wanted to be ready when they sent for him. Elrond rarely held councils of any kind before ten o'clock unless they were unofficial or especially urgent. This would give him more than adequate time to ready himself.

He dressed carefully. He had bathed the night before, and now put on a fresh tunic of fine green cloth and leggings of a darker hue. His sword he left beside his bed, but the golden circlet was upon his head as always, glinting amidst his dark locks. It would be an excellent counterpoint to Elrond's silver band.

There was a knock at the door again. Findur called for him to enter. It was Erelas this time. He silently set down a breakfast tray, taking the remnants of last night's dinner. Findur barely heeded him, but as Erelas turned to leave, Findur's curiosity got the best of him.

"Erelas," he said. "Erelas, you remember me, don't you?"

Erelas turned slowly and regarded him with the same stony expression he had worn yesterday.

"Good day, Master Naurhir," he said quietly, and left.

Findur frowned, sat, and began his breakfast. He was vaguely annoyed by Erelas's unquestioning obedience. Not that he was opposed to obedience. He thought of how furious he would be if someone under his command disobeyed his orders. But his were reasonable, intelligent orders. Elrond's ridiculous silence at his presence, on the other hand... what was the point of it? It was stupid. Couldn't Erelas see that?

He thought of Celebrían. _Of course she wants to see me_, he decided. _But Elrond has forbade her, and she's fool enough to obey that idiot husband of hers_.

He was tired of this. He felt like a mannequin in a tedious play. Figures hurried past him, ordering him around, telling him to wait, leaving him utterly helpless to act. Why, he had half a mind to storm up there right now and demand to be told what was happening...

There was another knock at the door. "Come in!" he cried, almost shouting.

Familiar blue eyes appeared at the door, framed with silver hair.

"Elrond will see you now," said Celebrían. "If you'll come with me, I'll escort you to him."

  


She would not meet his eyes as they walked down the hallway.

The shock at seeing her again after all these years did not quite dispel his annoyance. "So you're one of them too," he muttered. "Stringing me along in this insane masquerade. Is this Elrond's idea of a game?"

"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about," said Celebrían softly. He thought he could detect an edge to her voice.

"Of course you do! Treating me as if you have never seen me in my life. Why, Erelas won't even acknowledge me. It's all _Naurhir_ this and _Naurhir_ that..."

"That is your preferred name now, is it not?"

He couldn't believe this. Celebrían, his sister, the only person in Imladris he was sure he could trust... hostile beyond recognition!

He shook his head. "You won't even look me in the face."

Celebrían glanced over at him as they ascended the staircase. "Quite frankly," she murmured, "I'm afraid of what I'll see."

That quieted him... the intended effect, he supposed. And why should she trust him? He was a monster, he was...

_No. No good. No evil. Only destiny or oblivion._

They made their way up to the second floor. Findur realized that they were heading in the opposite direction of the council room. "Where are we going?"

"I told you," said Celebrían. "You will be speaking with Elrond."

"But the council room—"

"You'll be meeting with him in his study." They turned a corner and began down a long, sunlit hallway. Outside, the rain had stopped, and a blue sky beamed over the damp valley.

Findur was dismayed. A mental image of himself sitting at one end of a long table, staring at Elrond intently while a dozen chief members of the household looked on, promptly vanished.

"Elrond," Celebrían went on, "worried that certain sensitive details might be discussed at this meeting. Details that would best be kept private."

"He needn't worry. Obviously he has all of you well-trained to react to unusual circumstances in any manner he sees fit—"

Celebrían stopped and turned to face him. "Findur!" she cried. "I didn't escort you because Elrond asked it of me. Why, the only reason he allowed it was my insistence that I would go with or without his approval. I came because I wanted to see you. But you've never understood that, have you... Everything is ulterior motives to you. No one could possibly act out of simple, unselfish love."

Before he could respond, she closed her eyes and sighed. He hesitated, waiting for her to go on.

"You know the rest of the way yourself," she said finally.

He watched her retreating form disappear around the corner before he turned and went on to the study.

  


Elrond opened the door himself, as if welcoming an old friend. He did not smile, but neither was his expression hostile. Curiosity, perhaps, was the word that best described his intent. Keen eyes ran over Findur's form appraisingly, and behind those eyes, Findur could see Elrond applying logical processes, running over hypotheses, trying to understand the man that stood before him.

Normally, Findur would respond in kind, instinctively shaping his actions and words in a way that would best appeal to Elrond's fears and expectations. Not now. He was weary of diplomacy, of the deceptions and double entendres and sins of omission that made dialogue virtually meaningless. Whatever crimes Elrond might accuse him of, dishonesty would not be one of them.

"Hello, Findur," said Elrond. The silver circlet glinted on his brow.

Findur merely nodded and pushed past him into the room.

Again, it was not as he had expected. The thought of Elrond's study had conjured up memories of childhood disobedience, sitting mutely before the enormous desk while Elrond chastised him for disruptive pranks and broken windows. But, now, the desk was pushed up against the wall. A small circular table had been placed in the center of the room. Three chairs were drawn up to it. Elrond sat in one, motioning for Findur to take a seat in the second.

Findur did not sit at once. Frozen in place, he watched as the third occupant of the room slowly turned away from the far window. Celeborn met Findur's gaze only briefly. He was unchanged, really. Surely, his pained expression, thinly disguised with a veil of stern indifference, had always been there. Surely grief had always mingled with the courage and frankness and determination in his eyes.

"Hello, Findur," Celeborn said also, but his eyes remained averted. He took a seat beside Elrond.

Findur still hesitated. He found that he was afraid, perhaps even more afraid than he might have been if Celeborn had actually looked at him as he spoke. He felt the distance between them like an accusation. He closed his eyes for a moment, and with difficulty, remembered the Voice once more.

_There is no good. No evil. Only destiny and oblivion..._

He silently took the third seat.

"Before you begin the interrogation," he said aloud, "it might be helpful to know of what crimes I am being accused."

"This is not an interrogation, Findur," said Celeborn firmly. Apparently, he took offense to the very idea.

Elrond was not so dismissing. "Nevertheless," he agreed, "you deserve an explanation of why you have been summoned." The keen eyes studied him again. "And yet... have you not guessed at it yourself?"

What meaningless aversions! "I am afraid my skills of perception do not approach your high expectations," said Findur with mock gravity. "More to the point, how could I guess? You have summoned me without explanation, treated me as if I were a stranger upon my arrival, and now you invite me here as if none of it had happened, and ask, have you not guessed at our motives? Do you expect me to take your question seriously?"

"I understand your frustration," said Elrond, although Findur doubted that he could. "But as for our treatment of you, it is you who prompted it. You advertised yourself as Naurhir of Eregion, and outside of this room, I think it fitting that you remain Naurhir of Eregion."

"And in it?"

Celeborn spoke before Elrond could reply. "This is the room where the truth will be spoken," he said. "All of it."

Truth! As if he knew anything of truth. "Oh, I see," said Findur. "Then it is _I_ who have been dishonest."

"We make no charges," Elrond began, but again Celeborn interrupted.

"No, we make no charges... but we are not without questions ourselves!" Real fury began to show itself on Celeborn's face, but he carefully maintained an even tone. "Findur... you disappeared from our knowledge for two hundred years. Without explanation, you appeared once again in Imladris... and fled just as quickly. And now, little more than a decade later, you reappear as the ruler of a quickly expanding settlement amongst the ruins of a long dead Elven city, under a false name..."

"Peace, Celeborn," murmured Elrond.

"No," said Findur. "Let him speak. But I fear I have no answers to give him, save this: it is none of his business. What interest has he shown in my welfare since that day two hundred years ago? And even if he had pursued me, what claim does he have over me? I am not his son! I am none of his concern."

He had been sure that Celeborn would respond, but instead he sat motionless, unspeaking, insensible to the world around him. _Leave us then, father_, thought Findur._ I hope you find peace there, wasting away in your own private hell. Mourn for her, your precious Galadriel. Suffer with her if you like. But do not grieve for me. You have lost nothing. I was never yours to begin with._

Elrond, seeing that Celeborn had turned inward, spoke instead. "None of our concern?" he echoed. "I think it will be very much our concern, if what we have heard is true. But I will not begin with accusations. If you are indeed honest, and blameless, you will readily tell us all you know of a small settlement of Men in the north of Eriador, beneath the Gray Mountains, that has recently caused Arnor a great deal of trouble."

Findur tried to conceal his disbelief. Although he had not intended to keep his alliance with Angmar a secret forever, he was unnerved that Elrond had learned of it without his knowledge. How, and why, he could not fathom. What interest had Imladris ever taken in Arnor's affairs? He began to formulate denials, but a moment later, he stopped himself. What was there to prevent him from being honest?

"What would you like to know?" he asked, with an air of indifference.

Elrond was obviously taken aback. "Then you are familiar with it?"

"Yes."

Findur could hear the hesitance in Elrond's voice. "What is your relationship with this settlement?" the elven lord asked, surely silently wondering why Findur was being so straightforward.

Findur knew that his honesty could only go so far. _They are merely a tool_, he would like to say. _Some of the weaker puppets of Sauron, but nevertheless useful to my plans. Arnor is crumbling anyway. Why should you care?_

Somehow, he doubted this answer would appeal to Elrond.

Instead, he worded his answer carefully, using diction that could only convey a positive image. "They aided me greatly in rebuilding Ost-in-Edhil as a refuge for the people of Greenwood. In turn, I gave them supplies to assist them in their endeavors."

Elrond was still not satisfied. "And did these supplies include weapons?"

Findur found himself unalarmed by the question. He was doing well. What could Elrond ask him that he could not answer? He gave him a look that seemed to say, Come, let's be reasonable. "We live in dangerous times. Orcs and things of evil yet roam Eriador. Yes, I gave them weapons."

"And are you aware that these settlers," Elrond continued, "Black Númenoreans and Hill-men, have used your gifts against Arnor? That they have been consistently attacking that realm for the past six years?"

Findur smiled and shook his head. "They are dissidents, not necromancers. We have here a handful of Gondorians who wished to be their own masters, alongside rustics who fear Arnorian expansion. They were hungry, not hostile. I have asked them to stop the raids. They are of no concern to Imladris."

"You seem to have considerable influence over these people," Elrond observed.

"Your point?"

"My point," said Elrond calmly, "can be seen if the situation is looked at in a rational light. Why would Gondorians flee so far from home, only to face conflict with Arnor? Why would they leave at all? Gondor is prosperous at the present. Its political and social structures, although strict, generally allow dissidents to voice their opinions as long as they are not overly disruptive. I ask again, why would they leave?"

Findur stiffened inperceptively. This was not the direction the conversation was supposed to be going in. "You cannot expect me to understand the reasoning of mortals," he said sullenly.

"Ah, but I do understand," said Elrond softly. "Elrond Peredhil I am called, and my comprehension of the minds of Men is not wanting. Yet I can see no reason for these Men to migrate northward... unless they chose it _because_ of its proximity to Arnor." (2)

"I don't understand."

"Don't you?" It was Celeborn who spoke now, loudly and without reserve. "Arnor has not thrived many years. But neither has it faltered. Only in the past twelve years has the North Kingdom faced serious political instability, with rival factions emerging, and rebelling against the kingship, and quietly making friendships with Arnor's new enemy in the meantime. Or so people say. Meanwhile, the raids have continued—"

"Then you accuse me of trying to overthrow Arnor!" cried Findur.

"Not only Arnor," said Celeborn. "You say that this new Eregion is a haven for the people of Greenwood. But what interest do you have in their affairs, you who accuse us of extending _our _gaze too far? Greenwood is slowly emptying, and its people are under your control. There is too much you have left unexplained, Findur. Too much that cannot be explained, not without falling back upon Elrond's conclusions. Whatever your claims, Findur, it becomes increasingly clear that benevolence is not your aim." He paused. "Findur, I know you too well to deceive myself. I would be astonished if it were."

Findur could not escape an inexplicable sensation of having been betrayed. He was surprised that Elrond did not interrupt. Surely Celeborn was overreacting.

"So when your dissidents call you to their defense," Celeborn continued, "and Arnor calls us to theirs, we will not raise arms - but neither will we idly watch as you wreak havoc upon the tenuous peace that Middle-earth has reclaimed at such great expense. This can go on no longer."

Elrond saw Findur's eyes widen. "Yes," he said in a voice that was almost gentle after Celeborn's rage. "Arnor declared war, only a few days ago. Lindon has already gone to its aid, sparing supplies, if few soldiers. Which side will you chose, Findur?"

But before Findur could answer, the door behind them was flung open, and a figure rushed into the room. Celeborn frowned, and Elrond stood, and Findur turned to see Narion panting in the doorway.

Elrond and Celeborn exchanged unsettled glances. "What is it, Narion?" demanded Elrond. "You interrupt a private audience. Whatever your reasons for intruding—"

"You don't understand," said Narion. He seemed uneasy as well as out of breath. What, Findur, wondered, had impelled him to run the distance to Elrond's study?

Narion went on. "It is essential, absolutely imperative, that I speak with you. Right now, here, at once."

"Can it not wait?"

"Oh!" cried Narion. "But you do not understand! _Now_, it must be now. For you see, I have a confession, I must make it at once, it's been far too long..."

Findur felt himself grow tense.

Elrond looked perplexed.

"About Findur!" Narion exclaimed. He glanced at Elrond, and then Celeborn. "It might," he murmured, "be better related in private." He nodded meaningfully in Findur's direction.

"I will not leave if it concerns me," said Findur defiantly.

"He will stay," Elrond agreed. "I fear that too many lies have been sown already. We will all hear what Narion has to say."

Narion nodded and sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands. Elrond rose and shut the door again. "Speak," he said when he had returned to his seat.

Narion looked up, his face still partially hidden behind his hands. "I am ashamed," he began. "I do not know where to begin..." He stopped, receiving impatient glares from both Celeborn and Findur.

"I will start with the crux of the matter," he decided. "You see..." He hesitated. "It was I who placed the Lady Galadriel's letter in Findur's bedroom on the eve of his departure from Imladris."

The stunned silence in the room was tangible. Findur felt uneasy, and tried to look surprised, but feared it was not convincing.

"How dare you," Celeborn finally muttered, staring at Narion with a gaze of undisguised hatred.

Findur saw Elrond, surely disturbed but at the moment impassive, glance over at him and study his response. He found himself automatically looking away.

Then Elrond looked up, and placed a hand on Celeborn's arm. "Wait, and let him explain, if any explanation there is." He eyed Narion pointedly.

Celeborn grumbled and acquiesced, and Narion hurried on. "You cannot know how I regret it. I was a fool. Now do I see that. But I had reason to believe—"He sighed, paused, and launched himself into the full narrative.

"Many years ago, shortly after the war had ended, I was in Osgiliath. I was attending a meeting of craftsmen, and smiths from many lands had congregated in the city. Amongst them, I met a man, a mortal, I thought, though a strange one. He said he lived in Osgiliath, but he spoke Sindarin with a veritably Silvan accent, and wore his hair strangely, and though his hair was graying, his eyes eyes shone with a light that no mortal possessed, even if they themselves could not tell the difference. His name was Curuan.

"We became friends, and soon I discovered his secret - he had been imprisoned in Mordor during the War, and was Elven, not mortal at all. But the slow torments of the Dark Lord had left him thus, ever aging and weakening, though never dying.

"I learned another thing, a strange obsession of his that seemed to distract him from the reality of his condition. He had heard rumors during his imprisonment, rumors that Sauron had created a child, an heir, the offspring of an elven woman and his own flesh. He had spoken with uncouth figures in Osgiliath, and found confirmation to the rumors. Curuan, like myself, was a smith, and had a deep love for beauty. He should have been a Noldo; creation and perfection were his arts. Not metal and jewels only. We both saw the slow waning of Elven influence in Middle-earth, and Curuan was certain that this heir, gifted as Lúthien, wiser and more powerful than any mere elf, could become the leader we so desperately needed.

"Of course I remembered Galadriel's pregnancy, and Findur's birth, and knew a little of his temperament, though he was still very young at this meeting. I returned to Imladris and investigated, not a difficult task for one who lived in his household, and discovered the truth of his birth. I remained in contact with Curuan in the meanwhile, and shared my findings. We both agreed that the boy could not remain unaware of his heritage if he was to become the ruler we sought. He had to know. I could not tell him myself; he would never believe me, and would resent me for what he would deem slander. So, when I judged the time was ripe, I found a letter of Galadriel's amongst Celeborn's possessions, the very letter that had confirmed to me Findur's identity. I placed it where he might find it. I did not think it would cause him to flee. I did not intend to hurt him, not to that extent."

"Curuan was furious. What would we do now? I began to hear less from him, and when we did communicate, his bluntness made me question his goodwill. I began to distrust him. His mortal friends in Gondor, for instance, seemed suddenly suspicious to me. He said that _they_ had told him much of Sauron's heir, but when I spoke to them myself, they said it was Curuan who had told them all, and they had known nothing of the heir beforehand. A keen interest in necromancy, and the Dead, and the unseen, I also detected, and at times of idle conversation, Curuan's speculations often bespoke familiarity with these realms.

"Most troubling, though, was this... Curuan said that he had been imprisoned in Barad-dûr itself. Yet he had returned to his original home in Greenwood, by all accounts, _before _the siege was over. I knew he could not have escaped Sauron's stronghold, as his friends in Greenwood blindly assumed, and he had not been liberated by the invaders. He must have been set free. It became clearer to me that Curuan was no innocent, trying to better the future of Middle-earth, but that he had been set free for a purpose, he had been assimilated into Sauron's ranks during his imprisonment, and that he had been deceiving me from the start. He was not trying to help the heir... he was trying to bend him to the Dark Lord's purposes.

"I confronted Curuan at once, if only in the form of a message. Of course he denied everything, and called me a fool, and told me not to interfere. This last command worried me. It sounded as if he had found Findur already, and worried that I would interrupt his work. But I remained silent, and told no one of Curuan. I was afraid, and so convinced myself that he could not have found Findur, and that I need not fear. But if I was wrong, and the events of late are in any part the result of Curuan's poisonous lies... they are as much my fault as anyone's."

During the very long silence that followed, Findur tried to decide if Elrond and Celeborn would believe Narion's story. He realized they would. They trusted Narion, and they would eagerly accept any evidence that Findur had acted under the influence of a greater power.

_Let them believe, he thought. They'll get nothing from me._

Elrond looked up from his musings. "Findur, is there any truth in this story?"

"I would not know," said Findur coolly. "It could be true. It could be a lie."

"Then you are not familiar with this Curuan?" demanded Celeborn.

"Accusations," Findur muttered. "Is that the only language you speak? What, are you testing me? Trying to decide if I've been seduced by evil?"

"Not evil," said Elrond. "Folly."

Narion's head was in his hands again. He was muttering to himself.

"Folly! Ah, so you think me a Celebrimbor, beguiled by promises of beauty. I'm not quite as dull as Narion here. The only thing I have in common with Celebrimbor Ring-Maker was the undeserved love my idiot mother gave us."

"Your mother—" Celeborn began angrily.

"My mother was a fool," said Findur. "Like you are fools, slow, short-sighted, eager to name names, less anxious to act on your convictions. If evil calculates, and judges, and is not blinded by prejudices and heroics and utter stupidity, then I will gladly take the title. Better that than a fool, who does not know where he strikes, or why he does it, but merely swings his arm about like the simplest of children!"

Findur saw Celeborn ready to lash back, and Elrond ready to calm him and ask another question. It was all set out for him to see, a game to the last.

"I think," he said, rising from his seat, "that this interview is over."

All of the anger drained from Celeborn's face, leaving it wan and sorrowful. "Findur. Don't."

Findur hardly heard him. "Farewell, Master Elrond. And you as well, dearest Father. I hope this parting does not grieve you too deeply." He paused and reached into his pocket, taking out the wooden bird. He tossed it onto the table. "Oh, and give this to Arwen. Feel free to send her my regards."

And with that, furious and ultimately, he knew, victorious, Findur strode out of the room. As he left, he could hear Elrond murmur, "Then we will contact Arnor, and ask Amroth to continue as planned. There is nothing more to do. He has chosen for us."

Less than twenty minutes later, three horses could be seen galloping away from Imladris. On one of the house's balconies, a man stood and watched them ride away. One of his hands rested on the railing, but the other was clutched to his chest, grasping a wooden figurine. There he stood for a long time, and wept bitterly at the departure.

  


Findur had thought the closure of the day's events would allow him to rest, but it was not so. Instead he slept badly that night, tossing and turning, occasionally slipping into delirious dreams that ended abruptly at the softest noise. A few hours after midnight, he drifted off once more, and slept for a long time, but his dreams were strange and troubled, and did not comfort him.

He dreamt that he was in a garden, a garden that he thought he had known once. Above, a dark blue sky was spread out behind a sprinkle of glittering stars. In the twilight, the flowers took on a sharp relieved quality. It was cool and still.

His mother was standing nearby. She was like a statue, silent and beautiful, golden hair streaming about her arms. Her eyes watched him keenly, almost mockingly.

She spoke aloud. "This is your garden, Findur."

"I don't understand," he tried to say, but no sound would come from his mouth.

His mother laughed. "Isn't it obvious?" Her golden tresses, her bright eyes shone against the backdrop of night.

_But you were never like this._

The stars glinted like a thousand knives.

His mother sneered. "Ha! As if the child remembers what I was like!"

"No..." Findur shut his eyes. "You were..."

When he looked again, he saw that his mother was trembling, her head bowed. Her eyes glistened with tears. He remembered. He had tried to forget, but he remembered, now, that morning, long ago, in Imladris. He had ambled into her bedroom and found her weeping, her cheeks tearstained, her hand over her mouth to hold back pained sighs. At the sight of him, she had wiped the tears away and given him a reassuring smile. "Hush, my darling. I was a little sad, Findur... but it's over now."

He hadn't understood.

He watched her cry. She made no move to conceal her tears. Only stared at him through slits of eyes, unblinking. Look, she seemed to say. This is me, Findur. This is who I am. No more smiles, no more lies. You're not a little boy anymore.

He walked towards her, reaching out and placing a hand on her shoulder. And he knew: _a dark cell. Footsteps. Laughter. The coldness of fingers against her cheek_

"I should have died, Findur," she whispered. "But I lived. I lived for you."

Findur felt sick with anguish. He backed away. He tried to cry and found that he couldn't. Nothing would come. Not even words. He could not cry out to her. He could not cry. He was stone, only stone; there was nothing left.

He closed his eyes, and all was suddenly dark. Invisible arms around him. Nearby, a river flowed noisily into a clear pool. The arms were still holding him. He slid out of their embrace and looked up. Beside him, smiling softly, was a lithe woman with bright eyes and rosy cheeks. It took him a moment to realize that it was his mother. She watched him with warm eyes.

"Findur," she whispered, taking his hands in hers. He had forgotten the sensation of his hands being enveloped in those slim white palms. His hands were larger now. They didn't fit the way they used to.

"You've grown into a handsome man," she said softly.

"Like my father?" The words came out before he could stop them.

"Celeborn is your father."

"You know that's not what I meant." He shook his head. "I don't understand. You can't be real. This isn't really happening."

His mother smiled, resting her hand against his arm. "It's real enough," she said.

"But the others—"

"Were your misconstrued impressions of me. They were idols, nothing more. You would do best not to think on them."

"But they were right." He found himself staring blankly forward. "He hurt you. I hurt you. I hurt you. How you can look at me... and not think about... not see..."

His mother leaned towards him, smoothing a dark lock back from his brow. "I see you," she said. "I see my son." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her face suddenly contort into some unnameable expression. She took him suddenly in her arms once more, grasping him so tightly that he could feel her heartbeat like it was his own.

"He never loved you, Findur," she said, her voice husky. "He cannot have you."

Findur felt himself go numb.

"But he already does," he whispered.

And this time it was Galadriel who pulled away, staring at him with an amazed look.

"What do you mean?" she asked, the uncertainty in her voice betraying her fear.

"He already has me," he repeated. "Don't you see, he's always had me. It's what I am; you think you can love me but it's what I am..."

"Findur, no."

"I'm a sickness, Mother. I'm a disease and the disease is in me and I have always been this. It's been a lie, to think anything else, and for the first time I'm not lying anymore..."

"Findur, please, no."

"What?" Findur found himself screaming. He stood and turned away. He could not bear to look at her and the ugliness that was in her. "Did you think it would be different? Don't lie. I cannot stand dishonesty. When you sat in that cell with the disease growing in your womb did you not know? He called you Nerwende. I have seen it all. He called you Nerwende..."

"Findur, I love you."

"He called you Nerwende and he planted pain inside you and you gave birth to pain and called it your son. Did you think a name could change anything? Did you think I could be Celeborn's Galadriel's son? I was Nerwende's son. I was a whore's son."

"Findur, I—"

"Do you think I can pretend? I want it, Galadriel—" How bitter was that name! "I want what he can give me. What, do you think Ilúvatar watches us? Ilúvatar who permitted what... what he did to you? It will end in nothingness, and I want what he can give me. Why should I not rule? Why should I not take what you were not strong enough to take?"

"Findur!" It was a panicked shriek. He saw her shadow rise, try to take his hand. He pushed her away. "It's mine. I will rule at his side. I will have it. Our people are dwindling, dying; how can I not take it?"

"Findur..." A lower, graver voice. "Findur, I will always love you."

"It's mine."

"I will always love you."

"I'm going to save them. It's the only way. Save them. I'll save them."

"I will always love you, Findur."

Findur shook his head. "It's the only way," he muttered. But she wouldn't listen. She couldn't understand. Why wouldn't she understand? Again, he felt the rough isolated bulk of his own body. The meadow around them was fading. He was cold.

A moment later, he blinked, and found himself lying upon blankets in a field, staring up at the gray early morning sky.

* * *

1. from Galadriel's Lament

2. Peredhil Half-Elven


	16. Possession

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.  
**Rating (this chapter):** PG-13 for violence and references to rape.  
**Timeline:** Still T.A. 265, for the record.

Author's Note: I think I said that we'd never see a Curuan point-of-view. This teaches me to never say never... :)

**Shadow Child  
Chapter XVI: Possession**

When Findur had gone, Curuan returned to his rooms and slept for a long time. It had been impossible to get any substantial rest that past week, what with Sauron's thoughts always sweeping through his mind. With the day of the meeting between master and heir quickly approaching, Sauron's usually silent presence had become a constant, endless stream of prodding and questioning. Only now that the meeting had taken place, and Sauron was satisfied, could Curuan sleep without interruption.

Still, the question came to mind: could the Lord of Gifts not find someone else to gift with his badgering presence? Must he _always_ be looming over Curuan's shoulder?

When Curuan allowed these complaints to surface, Sauron ignored him, or gave him a stern admonition. _Without me you would be dead. Even if I had allowed your useless body to survive the terrors of Mordor, your life would be small, meaningless, of little account. Follow my bidding and it will never be so._

"Do not doubt my loyalty, Lord," Curuan would reply, and always he meant it. He had learned what pain was under Sauron's tutelage, and what power was, and that they were inseparable, and he had learned to wear this mask of age without misgivings. Surely Sauron had no more loyal servant than Curuan.

A little before dusk, he awoke. He looked down at his hands, which had seemed beautiful to his eyes that morning, and found them ugly yet with the residual lines of age. He straightened up and saw his face in the mirror across from his bed. Compared to his earlier appearance, it was startlingly smooth, but no rational being would mistake its wrinkled contours for elven-fair features.

He recalled his appearance long ago, when he had been a jewel-smith of high regard and Liniel's betrothed, and felt slightly ill.

_So many desires, Curuan, chided Sauron as Curuan stood and dressed. You who have a body, when I am unhoused... should I not be envious rather than pitying?_

"You are a Maia," countered Curuan aloud. He paused to wash his face and hands with water from the basin beside his bed. "You do not need a body."

_Neither do you. See how it goes for you on that day, whether you be prisoner of Mandos or unhoused spirit in Middle-earth. You see my existence as straightforward, then? It is not easy to communicate thus. Many barriers must be lifted from your mind. Even that was too difficult for me four months ago. As for acting, it is utterly impossible..._

Curuan tore a piece of bread from a fresh loaf and began to eat. "Then remove—" he said between bites, "a part—of my curse." He swallowed the last of his meal. "It has taught me obedience. Now it only hinders me, and squanders your powers. Lift it and regain a part of your strength."

Sauron did not reply. Curuan left his rooms, went down to the still-empty streets, and started for Findur's study, where paperwork and aides would sporadically appear, waiting for approval. When he was sure Sauron was gone, too involved in his own schemes to heed Curuan's frame of mind, he allowed his thoughts to wander.

_Prisoner of Mandos, he repeated silently, and indulged briefly in the possibility of having died in Barad-dûr and found new life in Valinor, waiting for a ship that would bring two sea-gray eyes back to him. But immediately he chastised himself for harboring such thoughts. How could he begin to doubt now, with all their designs so close to fruition? Sauron had promised him restoration. That time would come, and he imagined himself when it did. His skin would be unblemished, his limbs strong and young, his hair long and dark about his face._

Now, though, he looked down at his hands once more as he ascended a spiral staircase to the study, and he could not believe they had seemed anything but ugly and misshapen. He could never touch _her _with those hands.

Sometimes he wanted to. Sometimes he longed to to touch her, grasp her in his arms and take from her what she had once promised him before the war and the curse and Findur.

_So that is why you wish me to lift the curse, said Sauron, who had apparently been eavesdropping on the strongest of his thoughts._

Curuan entered the study, taking a seat behind the elaborately carved desk that dominated the room.

'I said I would wait," he said matter-of-factly.

_Yes. You will wait, until Findur is but a symbol, a shadow of my own power. Though he is strong-willed, even now he resigns to my will, wearying of rebellion against the inevitable. In that time, the people of Eregion will sleep and Angmar will be mighty and the Nazgûl will awaken to claim it and the Dwarves will bow to promises of wealth... All will crouch in waiting, waiting for my return... Then you may do as you like._

There was a pause.

_You would risk her death? If she went unwillingly..._

"I was only thinking to myself," said Curuan, opening a letter from Angmar and reading of Dolgubêl's allies in Harad and the East, whom he would summon in the case of war. _Ships_, the old man wrote,_ can transport men swiftly to the coast of Lindon, where Elves do not heed such mortal matters... defenses are generally useless... Easterlings can keep Gondor at bay if Arnor is in need of their sometime ally's assistance..._

He had seen Liniel lean over Findur's shoulder as he read letters behind this desk, and now Curuan imagined what it might be like to have her so close to him, her dark hair falling about his shoulder and neck, her cheek pressing against his...

_It cannot be._

"You don't know what it's like..." Curuan set the letter down. "I've waited for so long, and now... now that you are finally strong enough to give her to me..."

_You don't need her. You don't even want her. Only the idea of her allures you, because you cannot have her... Will you betray me in order to succumb to such mad impulses?_

Curuan closed his eyes, a stern combination of fear and guilt bridling desire. "Of course not." And he meant it, how could he not mean it, how could he even consider casting away that obedience that figured as the only constant in his life?

_I do greatly desire the power I can glean from you, Curuan. But you must vow to stay away from her. She must not see you. It is too early for her to begin asking questions._

Curuan felt strange relief at the mundane reasoning behind Sauron's command. "I promise," he said.

Sauron was not satisfied. _There is a letter opener on Findur's desk. Take it._

Curuan picked up the small silver instrument. The handle was engraved with a vining pattern and adorned with a garnet.

_Run it across the palm of your left hand. See to it that blood flows._

Curuan hesitated only long enough to wonder what this was about. Gripping the handle tightly, he made a long incision across his palm. He had to press with all his strength to cut deeply enough. Soon, blood appeared, trickling across his hand and down his wrist. When he was done, he wiped the blade on the hem of his tunic and replaced it. His hand throbbed with pain.

_It hurts, does it not?_

Curuan nodded quickly. "Yes."

_Some may call it pain, but you shall call it ecstasy. Without it, you are dead, senseless to reality. It is everything, Curuan. It is your redemption. Now will you forget her?_

"Yes," breathed Curuan.

_Good_. And a moment later, he felt a blinding agony sear through his limbs, so that he doubled over in pain, but did not cry out. When the pain ended and he opened his eyes, he saw the change: his hands smooth, flawless, and his limbs straight and muscular. He lifted his hands to his face and ran his fingers over unwrinkled flesh. The hair that fell about his shoulders was still gray, but darker, with a slight brown tint throughout.

He stood experimentally and felt none of the usual pains and stiffnesses that ailed him.

"Thank you," he murmured. "Thank you."

There were no muttered admonitions, no last minute threats. "Continue reading," said Sauron. "What else does Dolgubêl say?"

  


In all her days, Liniel had never understood what people meant in saying that art was a leisure activity. A "release", they called it, as if art might allow the artist to ascend to some unspoken realm of contentedness.

Didn't they know? Didn't they understand the desperate compulsion that an artist felt? Never a stray mark, an unplanned stroke. Colors just so. Every detail must be perfect, perfect, perfect. A release? Perhaps: in drawing she released an uncontrollable mania for precision in the only way she knew how.

Sometimes she wished she had Findur's natural aptitude for these things. He could get lost in his work for hours, choosing methods and techniques by pure instinct. Not so with Liniel. Everything was conscious, contrived, meticulously orchestrated. Sometimes she found herself trying to regulate her own heartbeat.

She stared down at the sketch she was working on in anticipation of a wall mural she thought she might like to paint in the gathering area off the courtyard, then looked up helplessly, searching for inspiration in the flat surfaces and draped fabrics of her bedroom. Findur had been given allowance to decorate the rest of the house, but the bedroom was all hers now, dominated by her favorite paintings and pieces of furniture. Findur, with his charming clutter, had not even bothered to punctuate the harmony with his own things; he spent most of his time in the front rooms and even occasionally fell asleep on a lounge in the sitting room. Henceforth, Liniel had dragged her writing desk into the bedroom and turned half of it into a studio.

Finding nothing in the decor to spark her imagination, her eyes fell back to the page before her, then shifted to the hand that held her pen, which was shaking. She sighed, dropped the pen noisily, and turned her seat away from the desk, folding her hands in her lap and staring pensively into nothingness.

She thought she might be angry with Findur, but she was not sure why. It wasn't as if he ever _meant_ any harm. Just as his artistry was instinctive, so was his life. He just _did_ things, blindly, with little regard for how it might affect others, or even himself. Oh, he was rarely malicious, and always was he charming, with a sharp wit, but long years had taught her the truth: these qualities only acted as a veil between the appearance and the reality of his reckless, childish behavior.

So when she idly wondered why he had not bid her farewell before departing from Imladris, it was almost impossible to discern a clear explanation. There could be any number of arbitrary, emotion-driven reasons, none of which had any real connection to his feelings for _her_.

She listed them in her mechanical way: _Maybe he was in a bad temper. Maybe he still resents me for loving him and therefore intruding on his perfect tragedy of a life, the history of which will culminate in his return to Imladris. Maybe he feared that I would accuse him once again of being afraid. Or maybe... it simply didn't occur to him... Maybe he didn't think of me at all..._

"Now who is being childish?" she said aloud with a laugh. Really. How could she doubt him now? If anything, it was she who was being unfaithful, bolstering his ambition with her own desperate love and yearning, all for her own gratification. He would be a king, and then she would be happy, not because she loved _him_, but because _she_ loved him.

Findur was just another ambition of hers. She knew the list by heart. _Learn all you can of the songs of enchantments. Marry Curuan and stop him from going to war _- that one hadn't worked out. And then a period of utter desolation, searching, searching for a reason to her existence... A vehement hatred of Sauron and the Noldor had burned within her, for all they had done to her mother and father and Curuan, but there had been nothing to do, no goal upon which to set her eye. Years passed, and she had grown more ravenous for fulfillment.

_Discover the heir of Sauron._ When Curuan had approached her, looking for aid, she had managed to push her anger aside and help him, hoping to discover some strong, wise leader who could restore Middle-earth to the Silvan people...

Still, she had been alone.

Then Findur had arrived, and he had been something she had wanted, and she had taken him in the most expedient manner possible. Her husband was just another acquisition designed to appease the burning hunger inside. Surely she could not halt until she had consumed the world. Ungoliath herself was not such a glutton...

But it wasn't true. No matter how ruthless she was, she wanted things for reasons, solid reasons that she could wrap her hands about. When she bent her mind towards Findur's happiness, she did that for a reason. She did it because...

_I love him._

With that small truth acknowledged, she snatched up her pen and flew down upon her art again with a fury, because she knew she could draw now, because things made sense and fit together correctly in her mind, and she loved him, and was this what Findur's mad intuition was like? At the same time, a growing fear alighted in her mind. She loved him, but perhaps he did not feel the same anymore, perhaps he had forgotten, by accident, and had let the emotion drift off beneath the burden of weightier matters...

Immediately, she strove for a logical rationale for the continuance of Findur's love for her, and found it quickly in recollections. He had said it himself, one morning, with a bag slung over his shoulder and his cloak wrapped tightly against the winter wind.

Brightened by this unexpected return to logic, Liniel smiled unexpectedly. She centered the parchment upon which she was sketching and started again, working slowly this time, with a calm, determined ease. Occasionally she paused for reflection, but that was all. It did not occur to her that this was the first time in years that she had had such a complex internal argument.

She worked diligently for nearly an hour, at which time she heard the sound of strange footsteps approaching the house.

"Findur?" she called softly, knowing very well it was not him.

A chuckle followed, and the clear strong voice from which it sprang was familiar, though she had not heard its tones for more than two hundred years.

  


Outside, Curuan waited, but when no further sound was to be heard within, and no face greeted him at the door, Curuan resolved to let himself in. Would he insult her overmuch with his boldness? Perhaps. Nevertheless, beguiling her seemed of less importance now that he stood before this door, the syllables of her husband's name still ringing in his ears. He would have her. It was inevitable.

As he opened the door - not bothering to close it behind him - and walked into the front room of Liniel's house, it occurred to him that he had never before been inside. Little surprise there. He was not socially visible in Ost-in-Edhil. Rumors of the curse that had disfigured him, probably proceeding from Arandule, had spread about, but his political influence was imperceptible, confined to quiet conversations in Findur's study. Even his position as steward left him as little more than a glorified secretary. He did not attend social events. He did not propose complicated agendas of internal improvement. Elves, after all, were adept at governing themselves when it came to most domestic affairs. It was trade and negotiations and expansion that Curuan busied himself with, realms in which the people of Eregion did not interfere.

Still, it was strange, he thought as he examined the decorative carvings and straight-backed chairs of the rather austere sitting room, that he had not been here even once, to speak with Findur, to exchange words with Liniel. Had he unconsciously been distancing himself from them? From _her_?

Quite likely. She had, after all, forgotten him, down to the sound of his footsteps. She who had once listened for them each evening... "Goodnight!" she would call to her parents as she rushed out to him. They would walk beneath the trees together, beside the mere. Even later, she had known the stiff walk of the man who approached her cottage, had run out to greet him, eyes wide and disbelieving (and not a little indignant) as they fell upon his crippled form.

Fantasy mingled with memory, so that the ever-pulsing backdrop to his thoughts grew more emphatic, less easy to ignore.

_Traitor. Weak fool. Do you think you can do this thing, daring to oppose I who gifted you with this new life, without fear of retribution? You are worthless without me. Dust, and you make yourself dust with every step. Guided more by weak bodily impulses than the voice of truth. Vain, and for what? Do you think yourself handsome? Mine is the only beauty, and my pain the only ecstasy. Follow your animal cravings and all we have built will crumble... Follow this path, and you, weak fool, who think you knows suffering... you will know pain truly, pain beyond lucidity, beyond comprehension..._

Empty threats, and yet they held a certain dread. He had never dared to defy Sauron like this. Disobedience felt strange, like a stiff new garment. He did not wish to be disloyal. But he could not wait, all would be well, nothing would be destroyed as Sauron feared... and he must have her...

"Curuan?"

A voice soft and terrified. He looked up and saw Liniel standing in the doorway. The expression on her face matched what he had heard. He had seen that look before, on the faces of prisoners of the Dark Tower newly captured, in the eyes of Easterlings newly arrived, waiting for the Dark Lord's commands. It was a look accompanied by silence, this waiting terror, for there was nothing else to say. In the time that passed, Curuan took in the curves and angles of her body and realized that he, too, could not speak.

The silence was punctuated by a single, horrified word. "How?"

He remembered his appearance and felt confidence return. He stepped forward, smiled. "Don't be afraid," he said calmly.

But fury only took the place of terror. "Don't lie to me, Curuan, or evade my questions. I demand to know the truth. Did... did Findur...?"

He laughed. He liked the sound of his own laughter, clear and youthful. "Surely you know that Findur's powers do not extend so far. And even if they did, why this? He's always been jealous of you and I."

Liniel was regaining her composure. Her jaw was tight, her eyes narrowed, watching him defiantly. He liked her this way. In the days before their engagement, he would tease her, asking her to lie with him and forego a ceremony, just to see this expression on her face.

"Tell me who did this to you," she repeated.

He shook his head, moving forward again. Liniel stepped back into the hallway. He could see a bedroom through the far doorway.

"Tell me who—"

Curuan interrupted. "You needn't be so contrary. It's not important how it happened. Isn't it enough to be happy for me?"

_Stop now and I may spare you... Fool..._

Sauron's accusations, far from swaying him, imbued him with a determination that bordered on recklessness. He strode up to her, reaching out and brushing his hand against his cheek as he had not dared in centuries.

Once again she darted out of reach, glaring at him under heavy lids. A few more steps, and she would be standing in the doorway of the bedroom.

"Why are you here, Curuan?" she demanded.

"to make a request," he answered honestly.

"Then make it."

He hesitated. "Sit down with me and we will talk."

"Tell me now. Tell me the truth. Even then I make no promises."

He laughed again. It was very funny! How ridiculous to be standing here with the thing he wanted and not taking it, to be juggling concessions instead. "Come, Liniel, you know that truth is only relative. Like promises. Hardly important." He took a step forward.

"It is to me." Liniel stepped back.

"Persistent as always! Why are you afraid? Look at me. I am almost healed. Even the man who left you alone in a cottage in Greenwood was not so youthful."

Another step, matched by Liniel's swift retreat. She had backed herself into the doorway, and now reached out and clutched the frame, as if bulwarking herself against a coming storm. "I wasn't alone. I had my mother."

"But then she left you." They seemed to be speaking the same language now, built of memories and unspoken understandings.

"Then..." She looked away searchingly. "Then I had Findur."

The glint in his eye was reply enough.

Liniel turned away almost immediately, releasing the door frame and entering the room. He caught the door handle before she could shut him out.

She glared at him over her shoulder. "Do you need it in words, then? Get out of my house, unless you decide to be upfront with me!"

He couldn't restrain himself any longer. She wanted honesty, then? He stepped forward into the room, slammed the door behind him, and grabbed her by the shoulders, clasping her to him and pressing his lips against hers.

He thought she might respond - she seemed for a moment to soften beneath his his grasp. And it was wonderful, everything he had yearned for; she was _his_ at last.

Too soon, though, she had wormed her way out of his grip. Her jaw was set, but her eyes burned with rage.

"How dare you." She was not yelling now, no, instead her voice was a whisper, deadly cold. "How dare you think that _I_—"

"What?" cried Curuan. "Is the Lady of Eregion above such base longings? What has changed? Why do you resist me?"

Liniel, not replying, darted towards the door, but Curuan blocked her path.

"Let me go," said Liniel.

"Not until you answer me."

Liniel was shaking her head. The mask of impenetrability had finally shattered, and now she gaped at him, her eyes shining with something like tears.

"I'm married," she said. "Does that mean nothing to you?"

Her blindness was infuriating. "Are we Noldor, you and I? To be restrained by mere laws, to cold-bloodedly deny our own desires? Their ways are not ours, now now, not here."

"You're not listening to me," said Liniel. "I don't want you. How dare you even suggest—"

"I dare! Do you have any notion what I have gone through these years? To watch you with him... when once it was _I _that you desired..."

"And would yet," said Liniel, "if you had not been so proud..."

"So you admit it. Once it was I that you desired... and now, see, I am restored? There's nothing in our way... Once is all I ask..."

Her eyes were averted now. If there were indeed tears in them, he could not tell. "You disgust me," she murmured.

So unhappy. Why? He couldn't quite bring himself to understand... for once she had loved him... and here they were, with a chance to set things right... How could she refuse him? How dare she ask him to let this desire burn unquenched within him? He needed her. She was his. She had been his from the start.

"Emelien and Amdír," he said, grasping upon the old story for precedent. "Were they wrong to have each other?"

"Get out." His manner frightened her... but she was not afraid of him. Not afraid for herself. Her placid response infuriated him. How dare she underestimate him.

"Answer me!" he cried, slamming his hand down upon the nearest flat surface. It was Liniel's desk, and the reverberations sent sketches flying. Liniel started, her form stiffening.

"Were they wrong?" he asked again.

No answer.

"_Were they wrong?_"

Liniel looked up at him, briefly, with a scathing look. "Emelien," she said pointedly, "_loved_ Amdír."

"And you loved me."

"No." She was shaking her head again. "You do not know what love is, Curuan. Don't you see? All you understand is desire."

He paused a moment to reflect on her words. He found he liked them. "Desire," he repeated, and smiled. "Yes. That is it. I know desire. And I desire you, and I will have you. Do I not deserve that much?"

Their eyes met, gray colliding with gray, and something of recognition came into Liniel's gaze.

"Get out," she murmured once more. Her eyes shone with unmasked fear.

Strange: it was only later, when he remembered the knife he had girded himself with before coming, that he understood exactly what he meant to do. Though perhaps, beneath the endless chorus of Sauron's threats, he had had known it from the beginning. Traitor, he had been called. Strange... that in emulation, he would betray.

At any rate, it was too late now. He would have her. She had been his, and would be once more. No price was too high. What man would not shatter his best earthenware before allowing it to be taken up by thieves?


	17. Fields of Gold

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.  
**Timeframe:** T.A. 265. late spring.  
**Rating:** PG-13 for violence, themes of rape, and language.  
A/N: To clarify... we begin, here, some minutes before the point at which the previous chapter ended. There was a gap of some days between the first scene of chapter 15 and the scenes after.

**Shadow Child  
Chapter XVII: Fields of Gold**

When Naurhir Findur strapped his sword to his side the morning he departed from Ost-in-Edhil, he had hardly expected to use it.

He had not even intended to bring the weapon. What need could he possibly have for such a device in the house of Elrond? Only at the last moment had he seized it, allured by fantastic notions of riding down into the valley of Imladris in sunlight, arrayed with a fine sword. Foolish vanity, of course, but it had seemed quite sensible at the time.

So many things had seemed sensible then.

He was certain, in later days, that he should have known, should have suspected _something_. And perhaps he had, just as Curuan had laid his hand on his knife hilt and known, as if the future were not the result of choice but a thing inevitable, wrought not by material hands, but by the cold humor of fate.

The expression on Arandulë's narrow, anxious face had told him that something, at least, was amiss. Mere minutes after he had entered the city, she approached him. She joined him midstride as he walked down the main thoroughfare, matching his long gait with surprising ease.

"I think you should go and see Liniel," she said without prelude. He was taken aback by her imperious tone. It was as if she were giving orders, and the only orders he had ever known Arandulë to give were those concerning the proper way to scrub floors.

"I will," Findur replied absent-mindedly. He disliked her manner, and vaguely decided that if anything was wrong, it could wait a few minutes. He was tired, and still had a saddlebag to lug home, and business to take care of.

They stopped in front of the arched doorway of the building where the captain of his guard was stationed. Findur began to enter, then saw that Arandulë was still standing beside him, looking at him imploringly.

"You should see her now, I mean," she said impatiently. What was the matter with her? There was something fierce and insistent about her voice, marked with what Findur distastefully identified as rebelliousness.

"I have been back less than five minutes," he said. "I have important matters to attend to. What is so urgent that I must drop everything and see her?"

At these words, Arandulë's expression gradually melted. She suddenly seemed very small, the yellow fabric of her dress draped over her body in a way that accentuated her sharply protruding bones, the hollows of her face and neck. Findur wondered if she ate quite often enough. He could count every one of her ribs.

"Nothing's urgent..." she said slowly, as if weighing the words in her mind. "But she has been upset, or something like it, all this week. Shutting herself inside and painting, you know how she is..."

Findur wanted to retort that, no, he did not know how she was, that in all their years of marriage he had rarely seen Liniel melancholy, and that it was certainly not, as Arandulë seemed to be insinuating, his fault if she were. However, he did not have the opportunity to reply. Almost as Arandulë had spoken, a stern-faced figure, apparently having heard his master's voice at the doorway, emerged from the stronghold. It was Calith, the captain of the guard of Ost-in-Edhil. Behind him, one of the common soldiers timidly waited. Findur saw with a start that it was Sûlómin, the same guard that Liniel had tended to after he had been wounded in Lórimir's mad protest so many years ago. He had been aware that Sûlómin had emigrated to Eregion and had taken a guard post, but it was nevertheless strange to see him again thus.

"Welcome back, Naurhir," said Calith with a rigid smile. Everything about Calith was rigid, as if he were as incapable of imprecision in his mannerisms as in his work. "It is good to see you again, lord. I trust you have had a pleasant journey?"

Sometimes Findur wholeheartedly detested Calith. It was as if all his childhood betters - Narion and Elrond and the rest - had been consolidated into one individual, not lecturing, but toadying, and toadying in such a way that it was clear that Calith had no deep-seated affection for his master. Not that Calith could ever be disloyal - absolutely unemotional was more like it. A mechanical monkey would show more enthusiasm.

Mechanical monkeys... that took him back to the day... what wonderful toys the Dwarves of Khazad-dum would export to Imladris! He used to take them apart to see how they worked...

Disconcerted by the power of the memory, he brushed it away and returned his attention to Calith. "Oh, it was adequate," he briskly replied. "But I have a matter of importance to discuss with you. Let us continue our conversation inside."

As they filed into the hold, Findur saw that Arandulë had gone.

A meeting room on the second floor provided an adequate setting for discussion. Calith took a seat at the plain rectangular table in the center of the room, while Sûlómin stood at the door, uncertain of whether to remain or go.

"Sit down, Sûloómin," said Findur with a nod, the memory of the humiliaton of being a pawn in Imladris still present in his mind.

Sûlómin smiled faintly. "Thank you, lord," he said, taking a seat across from Calith. Findur sat at the head of the table.

"Our ally in the north has been attacked," he announced calmly. We will be sending men in their defense."

Slight perplexity showed itself in Calith's otherwise placid face. "My lord? By whom have they been attacked?"

"By Arnor," said Findur. "Eldacar has declared war upon them: and so, by proxy, us." (1)

There was a very tense moment of silence, finally interrupted by Calith's brisk voice. "You will require a muster to be taken, then?" he asked, as if a war against Arnor were the most natural thing in the world.

"Make an declaration of our position, and then, yes, take a muster. Also take a separate count of skilled healers, men and women both. When that is finished, we can begin planning a defence for our northern friends, and put this great offense to a quick end. We must also send word to the Dwarves. Although they are more interested in commerce than matters of state, they too are our allies and can be counted upon to aid us in their way."

"Very good, my lord," said Calith, nodding with what looked like the beginning of a grin. Findur wondered if the man's watery disposition would not become iron in the chaos of war. What better landscape for such a strange mixture of exactitude and unfeelingness?

A little cough interrupted his reveries. Findur looked up. Sûlómin, who had always struck him as unusually burly, was looking tiny on the other end of the table, his eyes wide with the timidity of of a fawn's.

"Forgive me, Naurhir," he said quickly and softly. "But is Arnor... _our_ enemy?"

Findur smiled softly, gazing into Sûlómin's gentle gray eyes. Of course. Those who still thought like Sûlomóin would not understand, would not see that the old ways of thinking must be cast away. He would have to make them understand. An easy task.

"Arnor has attacked our allies without reason," he said sternly. Narion, lecturing him on the proper way to temper iron, might have spoken similarly. "They have upset the stability of Middle-earth. Even if we were to go back upon on our promise of friendship, it would be foolish to watch idly as Angmar is consumed. Who would be next? We must protect them to protect ourselves."

He watched Sûlómin's eyes as he spoke. A light came into the soldier's gaze, one of comprehension.

"Of course," Sûlómin said, satisfied. "I did not see that."

"If you have any more concerns, please speak to me. I would happy to receive council, or give it."

"It will not be necessary," the guardsman said.

"Then I will be leaving." Findur rose and nodded to both Calith and Sûlómin. "Good day. Please, seek me out when the muster is complete. I shall be in my study."

Pleased with his performance, he exited the room, made his way down the stairs in something of a run, and went to find Curuan.

  


Curuan's rooms were empty. So was Findur's study. The vacancy of the former was unastounding. The afternoon was already waning; he was sure to be out and about, doing _something_... but what that something was, Findur could not imagine. It was not as if the old man was very sociable. And surely he had been keeping to himself of late, considering the alteration in his condition that Sauron had effected?

He riffled through the papers on his desk to see if anything of account had happened in his absence. Nothing but a few long-winded letters from Dolgubêl. He did notice that his favorite letter-opener, silver with a garnet from the mines of Khazad-dûm - fashioned a few months after the completion of the latest trade negotiations with Durin - had a bit of dried blood on its blade. He imagined that Curuan's hand had slipped as he was using it and...

_You do not need Curuan any longer. He has served our purposes. It is time for the student to surpass the teacher, do you not agree?_

Findur started involuntarily, caught unaware by the sudden overpowering presence. His heart leapt. His nerves shuddered beneath his skin. He felt as if he were drowning, had always been drowning. It was horrible, exhilarating, electric. He could not remember what it had been like, to be alone.

Beneath the overwhelming physical reaction - had Sauron grown stronger since their last encounter? - he thought how sensible the words sounded.

_Do not consult him. He was never anything more than an implement._ You_ are the Heir. He need not be involved. Stay here, and we two will speak of the days ahead. Curuan will soon learn who is lord of Eregion._

"I am weary of his constant badgering," Findur said aloud, unsure of how else to reply if not with speech. "And yet—"

_You do not trust my counsel?_

"Of course I do," he said, exhaling deeply. What was he so afraid of? He was not so dependent on Curuan that he would mindlessly cling to the old man's guidance when presented with such a better teacher.

"Then I won't," he said aloud with an air of certainty. "Only I will return home, instead - if it is a matter indifferent to you - and rest for a few hours. It has been a long journey..."

He stopped and waited expectantly. There was no reply. He attempted to prod about with his thoughts in the same way that he might light or quench a candle. As far as he could tell, there was no one there.

"I see," he murmured unnecessarily, straightening up and leaving the room. He began to descend the stairs, then stopped when he saw Arandulë at the bottom, ready to ascend.

She looked up and saw him. "So there you are," she said. "Forgive me if I am interrupting—"

"I was about to return home and rest," he said, hurriedly descending the stairs and not looking at her.

"Good. Then you'll see—"

"Yes," he said firmly, cutting her off. "I will see her. I will also, if I am not interrupted, take a nap. I slept very poorly last night."

Reaching the bottom of the steps, he went out to the street. Arandulë trailed behind. He turned to her suddenly, and out of curiosity more than anything, asked, "Have you seen Curuan?"

Arandulë frowned. "Yes, actually, I saw him walking down the main street only a minute ago. Why do you—"

"It's of no account. I was curious." He would hate for Sauron, whenever he deemed it appropriate to return, to overhear him asking questions about the very man they had agreed to disregard. "I must go now." He looked back at her briefly. "Goodbye."

Arandulë nodded but said nothing. She did not turn to go, but leaned languidly against the white stones of the adjacent building, dark hair framing her white brow and ochre-colored cheeks, clasping her hands firmly before her and gazing after him with a look that was the marriage of deepest admiration and deepest sorrow.

  


He began with earnest now for the end of the street, walking quickly in anticipation of a return to the comfort of his home. Sleeping in his own bed, now that would be a relief. Surely no nightmares could plague him there. Even now, when he closed his eyes he thought he could see that garden, feel the frightened insistent pulsing of his mother's heart—he didn't know how—but he could feel it—even now, as he told her what he was—_Findur I love you—_

He shook his head, silencing the specter of a voice. He hated that place, the fearful oppression of eyes and arms. The dull intensity of a mother's beseeching cries seemed ridiculous beside his present euphoria. He'd never liked himself before... not the way he did now, with the knowing pride of a man who has embraced his destiny. Why had he ever tried to run? He could never have escaped it. If only he had stopped earlier... The potential to feel what he was feeling now, it had been there all the time...

Inevitability was a wondrous drug.

He came to the end of the road, where an intersecting path led to his house. He turned onto it and found himself surprised as always by the contrast between the broad white avenues and the tree-sprinkled green that lined both sides of the rocky path. This time, it was an unwelcome change, too shadow-filled and silent. And when he saw his house, wooden and winding like every house that he and Liniel had ever owned, he hated the seclusion and wished for something new, a great house like Elrond's, or Dolgubel's in Osgiliath.

He was about to turn back, perhaps to take refuge in his study, when he saw that the front door of his house was ajar.

His first thought was that Arandulë had gone to check on Liniel herself, taking back ways so as not to annoy Findur with her repeated presence. But Arandulë closed doors behind her.

He strode forward and placed a hand on the doorknob, and immediately he felt a spasm of inexplicable horror run through his body, causing him to visibly shudder.

At the same time, a voice sliced through him like a ribbon of fire.

_What are you doing here, Findur?_

Unnerved, Findur looked around, though he knew there was no one to see. Sauron's presence seemed stronger than ever, and he could not block him out. Did not want to.

"I thought I might rest," he said.

_There is no time for rest. We agreed to speak in your study. It would be best if you returned there._

Findur stiffened, but he did not move. He felt the shadow of the trees looming over him. The sense of horror still oscillated within him, hovering about his heart. If he were startled again, he might actually jump.

"I cannot work without rest," he said. "I am not as strong as you would like me to be."

_You are afraid._ The voice, though silent, was quick and harsh against his own static mind. _You are still afraid of what you are. A coward, too afraid to step forward and claim what the Accursed Light has abandoned. You need not be afraid, not when I am with you. Fire and Shadow are stronger than starlight..._

Imladris burning. He almost desired it.

"I'll go!" he cried. "In a moment... I'm hungry..."

Knowing instinctively that Sauron would not be pleased, and without understanding why he did it, Findur stepped through the open doorway. As he did, Sauron's presence was joined by another sound, the sound of breathing.

_No_, said Sauron. _There is no time._

Two were breathing: male and female, he thought. It was a sound filled with fear and hatred and desperation and cruelty and desire, carrying through all the rooms of the house.

Breathing... burning... Imladris burning... or was that the world? The recklessness of desire. Impulsive commands. Glowing faces around him. Naurhir, murderer of that which is. An end to pain indeed. Euphoria of blood.

He heard his own breathing, the rapid beating of his heart, and felt the fire running through his veins, burning at his very core.

He heard his own breathing, and matched it to hers, and knew the voice that carried it, and was afraid.

Fear matched fear—breath entwined with breath—what would happen if that breath ceased? How could this vessel go on?

The trinity was polarized. Her and you. Us and _him_.

He knew he could not live without her.

He knew why his mother had saved him.

Before he realized what he doing, he was running down the hall as fast as his feet could carry him, stretching his hand before him. The hallway blurred around him. As soon as he came to the far door, he threw it open, bursting into the bedroom.

The curtains of the room were drawn, leaving it full of shadows. Sauron's distant imploring ostinato - _you do not understand; this was not my doing_ - still drummed through his mind, distracting him. Nevertheless, it did not take much effort to assess the situation.

Curuan had pinned Liniel against the wall, the weight of his body pressed against her, keeping her in place. His nails gripped the bare skin of her right shoulder, the fabric of her dress torn, hanging loosely about her upper torso. Both figures were frozen like statues. 

But why did she not struggle? Even now, Liniel only glanced briefly and desperately at Findur, soon returning her gaze to Curuan's bright and furious eyes. They burned as they watched her, in a way that was perhaps more irresistible than his firm grip.

Findur did not speak. He could not. He thought that he might be sick. Brief snatches of thought flitted through his mind: it was his own fault. A monster. Both of them monsters. If he, if he dared...

Even as he stared in revulsion, his hand went to the hilt of his sword. He drew the shining blade.

Slowly, Curuan's head turned towards him, eyes glinting. He looked monstrous in the dimming light of afternoon, his appearance an unnatural configuration of youth and age, some artist's infernal masterpiece. He was breathing almost as rapidly as Liniel, his face flushed with excitement. There was no fear in his eyes as he glanced at Findur's weapon. Instead, he smiled, and turned in such a way so that Findur could see his right hand. He was holding a blade of his own, slim and silver and pressed against the cavity of Liniel's throat.

Findur's jaw went slack, then tensed with fear. He felt himself step forward—the sword was quivering; he couldn't keep a steady grip on it—he readied himself to make a sudden move—

He saw Curuan press the knife more firmly against his wife's throat.

"Come closer," the old man breathed, a strange lilt to his voice, "and I will slit her throat. I will kill her, and you will have murdered her." Another smile, just as ghastly. "What, son of Sauron, are you surprised? Do you think I would let you—" He trailed off, shook his head. "She's mine," he murmured after a time. He dug his nails deeper into her skin. "I will have her. How... how can you ask me..."

Findur had the distinct feeling that he was not the only audience to Curuan's pleas.

"I... don't believe you," he said slowly. "You... you loved her. How can you think of hurting her?" He wished that Curuan would loosen his grip, that Liniel would speak from beneath that gaze.

Curuan closed his eyes for a moment. Findur thought that he had reached him, but the caustic tone of the man's voice put the thought out of his head.

"This... has nothing to do with... _love_." The eyes opened, and Findur found himself the subject of a scathing glare. "I want her. She's mine, and I will have her. Utilitarianism, Findur. Now get out of the way or I will kill her before your eyes."

He could do it. It would mean certain death, but he _could_ do it. Surely it was a bluff... Findur remembered Amroth in that position... _Oh, come now. I would never have harmed him. Do that, and I would be killed myself..._

"You did love her once," Findur ventured. "And she loved you. You left her. What claim do you have to her heart, after abandoning her like that?"

"Silence!" roared Curuan, his face suddenly contorted with rage. With one final glare, he turned back towards Liniel. He removed his hand from her shoulder and caressed her cheek. Liniel visibly shuddered.

"I will have her," he repeated.

Findur stepped forward, sword extended. "Get away from her," he cried once more. His blade was dangerously close to Curuan's side.

Curuan did not seem to notice. He was completely intent on Liniel's pale face. He inclined towards her slowly, brushed the hair out of her eyes, as if they two were alone in the room.

He kissed her.

Findur thought he had known hatred. Now every moment of anger that he had experienced seemed a trifle compared to the consuming fury he felt now, watching Liniel struggle beneath that monster's grip, her jaw firm and straining, her eyes moist with tears.

"Damn you," he said, low and seemingly without fury, as he swung the blade.

Curuan pulled away from the kiss. He turned and caught Liniel in front of him with one arm. He had forgotten the knife now, his hand hanging limply at his side. His eyes took in the blade and his relation to it.

Findur saw fearful confusion in the old man's eyes.

He paused, startled, and hesitated. It was less than a second that he paused. Soon after, the blade plunged into Curuan's unprotected side.

But the pause was enough. Even as Findur made the desperate stroke, Curuan made one of his own. The hand clutching the knife made a sudden shuddering movement into Liniel's lower torso.

Then he collapsed with a sublime smile.

The room was suddenly very silent. Findur was standing in the center of it. He still clasped the bloody sword in his hand. He couldn't relax his grip.

He couldn't stop shaking.

Only when Liniel staggered forward, her face wan, did he have the presence of mind to sheathe the weapon. Blood was already soaking through her white gown. She grasped his shirt sleeve ineffectually, and would have fallen if he had not caught her in his arms.

He cradled her shivering body for a few moments, too stunned to react. She seemed to be in shock, eyes half-open. Her cheek was so cold against his shoulder.

Help. They needed help. He would get help.

Carefully, he swung her up into his arms. Then he started for the open door.

He looked back only once before leaving that room. His eyes automatically fell upon the corpse he was leaving behind him.

It was no longer the body of the Curuan he knew. Instead, a young man lay dead on the wooden floor. He was dark-haired and dark-browed, and his countenance was fair. But his gray eyes were empty, and his shabby clothes were drenched in a growing pool of blood.

  


Findur ran.

He dashed through the scattered trees, clutching Liniel to his breast. Stiller and stiller she was growing in his arms, and her breath came less frequently.

"Forgive me, forgive me," he murmured as he ran. Or sometimes, just, "Liniel, Liniel," again and again, until he grew hoarse. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling upon his cheeks for the first time since he had come to Ost-in-Edhil.

It was not until he had come to the edge of the trees, where the eastern meadowlands began, that he realized that he had been running _away_ from the center of the town.

Somehow, it seemed like the right direction. He ran out into the meadow, and reams of gold enfolded him as if in embrace. The crimson-tipped horizon spread out before him. Not running away. Running towards... towards something, though he knew not what.

He continued to run, peering into the distance, and soon his eye settled on the omen he sought. White tents. They dotted the horizon, clustered together in a makeshift settlement that surely had not been there a week ago.

White tents loomed ahead, and Findur ran towards them, unaware of the weight of his wife's body in his arms. He ran until he was stumbling, almost crawling. The tents grew closer every second. Tears and exhaustion blurred his eyes.

He ran until he could run no more. Some several hundred yards from the settlement, he collapsed. Strong arms took him and his burden up, and Findur Naurhir fell into darkness.

* * *

1. Eldacar - king of Arnor at that time. As a sidenote, his relatively recent acension to power - at the beginning of Eregion's refounding, he'd only been on the throne for four years - could have added to the political instability of Arnor. It's a lot easier for factions to form and problems to arise during a time of transition. I'm sure there's an entire novel waiting to be written about that bit, but don't get your hopes up.


	18. The Warmth

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.  
**Time frame:** T.A. 265. late spring.  
**Rating:** PG-13 for themes of rape.  
**A/N**: Title arguably stolen from an (excellent) Incubus song.

**Shadow Child  
Chapter XVIII: The Warmth**

Findur dreamed no dreams in the few minutes between his swoon and his awakening. Though unmoving, he was dimly aware of being borne up by many arms. Voices washed over him, low and sweet, like separate currents of a great river. The air around him smelt of leather and honey and faint perspiration.

He was brought to to a warm, lightless place, where the world shifted, and then steadied and grew still. The voices faded. In the silence, the darkness made a picture, weaving itself into strands long and sleek, black against pale skin, twisted at the nape of a swan neck... but the image faded, falling back into a sea of pure sensation.

Dark, and soft, and fragrant, and something cool on his forehead.

"Look! He's waking. I saw his eyes flutter open."

"Yes... Perhaps I should leave."

He could not remember what the words meant. Instead, the timbres of the voices drew him closer to consciousness. One was like petals of gold scattered on a white path, but the second was soft and intent as a single leaf blown by great winds. Familiar strains, bringing with them long-forgotten memories...

"What?" asked the first voice. "For what reason? Surely—"

"I will go," repeated the second voice. "I... I fear I should not be kind. If there is a confrontation, let it wait. For his sake as much as my own. We will speak later."

Footsteps fell, and fabric rustled, and dialogue ran dizzily through his mind - _I fear... I fear I..._ Remembered what the words meant, and was Findur again.

He opened his eyes. He could see only white, interrupted by a triangle of undulating sky to which the second voice had apparently disappeared.

A moment later, his field of view was dominated by a unexpected familiar face leaning over him.

"Welcome back to the waking world, Master Findur," said Amroth with a gentle smile.

Astonished, Findur sprang from the ground and stepped back quickly, taking in the white canopy of the tent above him and the makeshift bed of blankets below in one glance. The blurry images seemed to spin and reel about him. Amroth... what was Amroth...?

Even as he found himself on the verge of collapsing once more, Amroth seized him, holding him steady.

"Slowly, slowly now," said Amroth, leading him back to the pile of blankets and beckoning for him to sit. "You are safe and have nothing to fear."

Findur was not afraid. He felt curiously still, an anomaly of gears and wheels against the neutral surroundings, something ever-turning, yet ever-fixed. He lowered himself onto the blankets, his back and arms sore—from carrying Liniel—?

"Where is she?" he asked hurriedly. "Liniel—where is Liniel—"

"The lady?" asked Amroth, kneeling again at Findur's side. "She is being cared for. First—"

"Where? I must see her!"

"And so we will. But first... friend, do you have any notion of where you are?"

"There were tents," said Findur vaguely, too distracted to fully comprehend Amroth's question. A few moments' muddled reasoning, though, sorted out the import of the statement. He looked up at Amroth with newly wrought confusion. "Did... Elrond send you?"

"In a matter of speaking," said Amroth. He ran a critical eye over Findur. "You are not hurt—do you feel well enough to walk?"

"Yes, yes," said Findur. "Please—bring me to her."

Amroth nodded, and with the support of his outstretched hand, Findur rose once more and stiffly walked to the door of the tent. Evening was falling fast, leaving the gold fields and white tents shrouded in a purple darkness.

"Who is she, this woman?" asked Amroth softly from behind him.

"She is my wife," said Findur without thinking, but when he turned to gauge Amroth's reaction, he found only understanding in the king's clear gray eyes.

"She has a beautiful name," said Amroth, and smiled, taking Findur by the hand and leading him out into the darkening night.

  


They cut swiftly across the meadow, Amroth staying close at Findur's side. Findur saw that he was girded with a hunting knife. He wondered if he was to be held prisoner here, and, if so, what had these strange invaders had thought when they had beheld their enemy running directly into their midst.

Amroth halted before one of the larger tents. "In here, Findur," he said, lifting the tent flap and nodding for him to enter.

Findur did not move. He stared at Amroth in realization. "Findur," he murmured. "You called me—"

Amroth's smile had twisted and frozen, and he stared blankly at his feet as he spoke. "What would you prefer to be called? Morfindel?" All of the humor had drained out of his voice. He smirked, but his eyes were cold. "_Gwathion?_"

"I—"

"No." Amroth sighed and looked up, meeting Findur's gaze. "Do not apologize, my friend... I have no great grievance toward you. Others will make their case soon enough." He beckoned towards the tent. "Come. She lies within."

Every thought in Findur's mind vanished the instant he saw her. In the cool darkness of the tent, two or three attendants at her side, his wife lay unmoving upon a bower of blankets and pillows and wraps and reeds. Her blood-stained bodice had been removed and replaced with a clean, loose-fitting tunic, and Findur saw that her side had been well-bandaged beneath. But her skin was a ghastly white, and she did not stir.

He sank feebly at her side, taking her hand in his. Her skin was like ice against his own, but he only clutched it the tighter, closing his eyes against coming tears. A hand was resting on his shoulder, and a voice murmured words that sent the attendants shuffling away, but he was hardly aware of them. There was only this ice between his palms and a sea of memories he could not bear to think on, could not push away.

_Think on it, Findur. Think on it, and look upon your own reflection. It's happened before. And once, before, you knew how to be angry—drawing a knife when that snake, Curuan, merely referred to your mother's undoing. (Less than an hour later, you had already allowed yourself to be snared by his poisonous lies... but remember nevertheless the fury that stirred your blood, that sent you crying aloud when you heard "bastard" in the same sentence as "Galadriel.")_

Fifty years, and you've learned insensibility, a silence of the heart. Blame no one: Liniel, with her carefully guarded passions, did not teach you to stop feeling altogether. Even Curuan, rational and cruel, desired too openly. But you closed your eyes. It was easier that way, wasn't it? Compassion is a hard master, but impulse and fancy make no demands.

Say not that you did not know. You knew. You saw the way his eyes passed over her form. You knew what he was capable of, with the Deceiver himself as his master...

And your master, Findur. And your master.

He dimly recalled the night that Narion's letter had fallen into his unsuspecting hands. Standing alone in a darkened field, he had inexplicably turned away from death, choosing instead a life in exile. Now he imagined the cool hollowness of unbeing... complete disassociation from sensation... and could not conceive of a more perfect bliss.

A shudder of emotion ran through him, quicker than fire and colder than shadow. He opened his eyes, looking down upon Liniel's almost-lifeless form, and chastised himself for his selfishness. How could he think of death when she... when she...

A new thought came into his mind.

_I would die... for her._

Let me do it. Let me die for her. My life for hers, this wretched fire for the stirring of her frozen veins. I will do it gladly, and rest in Mandos for all eternity.

He did not know who he was addressing. Elbereth? Ilúvatar? His mother?

Of course it didn't matter. He could think of no means by which his death could equate to Liniel's life. Even if such a transaction might be arranged... what power would care to make the offer? Who would ever heed _his_ call?

What a fool he had been, the day of his marriage to Liniel. _Bless our new life together_, he had petitioned silently. _For Liniel's sake, if not for my own._ But the words had not been enough to dispel the shroud of his past, and behold!—the response to his prayer lay before him.

"What are you thinking of?"

Findur looked up. Amroth was knelt across from him, watching Findur's face intently. His own lips were parted, and he wondered if he hadn't been murmuring aloud, however softly.

"I was thinking of the Valar," said Findur.

"Your mother saw them with her own eyes, did she not?" asked Amroth eagerly, and then flushed. "Forgive me," he said quickly. "I did not mean to—"

Findur scarcely heard Amroth's attempts to retract the impertinent question. "Yes," he said softly. "She knew them. She loved Elbereth best."

Amroth fell silent.

"On a clear night in the summer," said Findur, "we would walk for hours beneath the stars, just us two." The recollection spun a warm blanket around him, distancing his mind from the present horror. "She taught me all their names. Valacirca, Wilwarin, Anarríma, Remirrath... Menelvagor was the one I liked best. She would tell me stories of him, the great warrior who prefigured the last days of battle. And then... she would tell me of—of Celeborn. And sometimes I would mix the two up. Both warriors, you see. When she told me she had seen _her_—had seen the hand that set the stars in the sky—I didn't believe her. No. No, I did, because I believed everything she told me. She told me how beautiful the Star-Kindler was. That the light of Ilúvatar was in her face. I think she felt ugly in her presence... small and stunted and ghastly pale... She never said so. She didn't resent it, not anymore. I think, once, she did. I could see it in her eyes." He looked up. "I'm talking nonsense."

"No," said Amroth fervently. Immediately, he lowered his eyes, his face reddening once more, but he murmured, "Please... if you wish... continue."

"Celeborn... was enamored with Yavanna," said Findur. And he wanted to stop, to excise the face from his mind, but he could not, for all he could see was his mother and Celeborn embracing in a field in Imladris, and to exile the latter from his memory would be to banish her as well. "He liked her because... because he could understand her," he said slowly. "He was always self-effacing. He said that matters of Valinor were too far above him, but I always knew it wasn't true. He liked Middle-earth better. That was all. He was always self-effacing... and I never understood why. I thought... I thought he was wonderful. But he would only speak of Yavanna. Mother of the land. Tree-planter, earth-mother..." He found his voice was breaking on the last syllable, and went on hurriedly, "Please Yavanna... Elbereth... anyone... I have no right to speak these words. I know it. I have betrayed her, and you, and all my people. But for Liniel's sake... my life is meaningless, I would be rid of it, but for Liniel's sake, please... save her... do not let her die for my treason..."

But only silence, and the wind through the grass.

"Not treason," said Amroth softly. "Folly."

"What do you know of it?" cried Findur, looking up disgustedly at Amroth's calm face. "Nothing. You know nothing!"

"You've told me nothing," said Amroth. He lay a hand on the bower, just beside Liniel's head. "How was she wounded?"

Findur clenched his teeth, barely suppressing a keen desire to wrench Amroth's hand away from his wife's side. "She was attacked," he muttered.

"By whom?"

He could not do this. He could not sit passively while Amroth pried away at truths too deep for such a blameless heart to comprehend.

"She was attacked," he repeated. He saw Amroth's eyes dart nervously at the statement. Quickly he understood. "You think I did it."

"I—"

"I would never! I would never hurt her! Am I such a monster—"

He realized the irony of the words he had just uttered. A sudden blow, a rivulet of blood trickling across his wife's upper lip flashed before him, seen as if with vision. He was still clutching the ice-cold hands, and now held them the tighter, falling forward and burying his face in the blankets of the bower.

"I am a monster," he said, his voice muffled by the folds of cloth. "But I did not do this. I would slay myself before I committed such a deed."

"You are no monster, Findur," said Amroth. "And I believe you." And there was silence for a few minutes, as each contemplated the meaning of the words.

"You are here to end my rule," observed Findur.

"As I said, I am here to stop you from making a fool of yourself," said Amroth gently.

Findur sat up, meeting Amroth's eyes. "Do not patronize me, please."

"I do not patronize, Findur of Imladris. If you wish to know what brought me here—"

Findur rolled his eyes, feeling too weary for political games. "Elrond sent you. We have established that. Let him do what he likes."

"Elrond set the events into motion, yes," said Amroth. "But it is by the authority of the king of Greenwood that I have come now, in the event that you declare war upon Arnor, and thus lead his people into a war against their own kin. I assume you have done so based on the expression on your face."

"Against Arnor only," said Findur. "But it matters not now... Yet I do not understand. Greenwood has no king."

"It has one now," said Amroth with something of a smile. "Legolas, son of Thranduil, has not yet declared himself in his own land, but he met me in Lórinand as soon as he learned of your... activities. Many of his people now dwell there in exile, and they met him with joy. Elladan, Elrond's son had already informed me of recent events. He suggested that we make an unannounced appearance before hostilities had the opportunity to escalate."

"But..." Findur's head spun with numbers. "It's been less than a month since Arnor declared war. I've only known of it a week. The Redhorn Pass—"

"We did not go by the Redhorn Pass. Durin was quite willing to let us pass through his halls when he heard that Arnor was in danger. Apparently he was in the dark when it came to the quality of your connection with Angmar. He does not forget the friendship of Dwarves and Men in the Last Alliance, and besides, Arnor is one of his best trading partners. All of Eriador has benefited from increased trade with Khazad-dûm, not Eregion and Angmar alone."

"Durin," muttered Findur. "And I was sure that I had Durin."

"Findur. I understand that you are grieved. But word must be sent to the city. What do you intend to do?"

"Tell them I abdicate," said Findur. "Tell them to pack and go home and try to forget that Naurhir Morfindel ever existed—"

It occurred to him that Curuan's dead body was still lying in his bedroom. That, as far as he knew, a shadow still lay over Ost-in-Edhil.

_You cannot just undo this, Findur._

He shuddered, clutching Liniel's hands the tighter. "I don't know," he whispered. "I don't know. Please, just leave me be."

Amroth left him then, with soft words and a promise to return later in the night. Findur was left with the sound of Liniel's shallow breathing, and found himself breathing with her, until there was nothing but their two pairs of lungs.

_As long as I continue to breathe, so will she. And as long as she breathes, she is not gone._

And so the long night passed. Medics flitted in and out, checking the state of the wound and giving Liniel all manner of poultices and draughts. Amroth came and urged Findur to sleep, but Findur spurned his offer of lodgings.

A few hours before dawn, he finally succumbed to sleep, such was his weariness. But his rest was dark and unsettling, full of shadowy gardens and leering faces, and, even as the sun rose, a dark and terrifying presence that caused him to sit upright, eyes open, and shudder uncontrollably until it passed over him and fled into the east.

After the shadow had retreated, Findur slept the more soundly. No dreams troubled him, and he did not stir until after noon, when he heard a soft familiar voice calling him.

"Morfindel?"

Findur, whose brow was resting against Liniel's hip, and whose head was buried in blankets, pushed himself slowly from the bed, groaning and turning to see who had called.

"Arandu—?" he murmured groggily.

Arandulë stood in the opening of the tent, soft white light filtering in behind her. Amroth was standing beside her, and behind him...

"Lórimir," exclaimed Findur without thinking. But the golden-haired figure quickly turned and fled, and Findur realized his stupidity. Of course it was not Lörimir, but his brother.

Meanwhile, Arandulë had suddenly blanched. She was staring past Findur, transfixed by the sight of Liniel's inert form.

"She's not—"

"She's alive," said Findur in what was meant to be a reassuring voice. His hand had lost its grip upon Liniel's in the night, and he clutched it now, as if to assert her continued vitality. He felt a sudden stab of guilt for having fallen asleep.

Arandulë ventured a few steps into the tent.

"Did... did _he_ do it?"

"Who?" demanded Findur and Amroth simultaneously.

"The—the man we found in your house. No one knew who he was."

"But—"

"He was dark-haired, gray-eyed. He looked like... but it couldn't be..."

Findur gave no sign, and she hurried on, "It looked—like Curuan. I did not know him before the war, nor Liniel. But I saw him when he came back. Morfindel—" She was tilting her head back imperceptibly, with a learned expertise that came with habitual crying. "It couldn't be him, could it?"

When Findur did not answer, Arandulë went to the bower, kneeling and looking down at Liniel's body with all the gravity of a vigil for a corpse.

"They say you are going to abdicate," she said.

"Yes."

"But you can't. You can't abandon us."

"You don't know what you're saying."

"You are the only one who has sustained us—"

"I have betrayed you!" cried Findur, rising swiftly and stepping away, his hands fisted in an effort to divert his anger. "What, do you think me strong? Fair? _Wise?_ You do not even know who I am. What I am. I am worse than that man you found in my house. I am an abomination, do you understand?"

There was a silence, all averted eyes and ragged breath.

"What do you mean?" demanded Arandulë finally, looking frightened. She threw an imploring glance in Amroth's direction, as if in hope that he might answer the riddle in Findur's stead, but the elven king regarded her coolly, not stirring from his post in the entrance of the tent.

Findur followed her line of sight, her ignorance a palpable weight on his skin, in his stomach. A thousand dreadful images followed: a fluttering parchment, familiar voices speaking in unfamiliar ways, clouded gray eyes on the wrong side of a transparent veil. He shuddered, filled suddenly with an overwhelming desire to tell her everything.

"Your parents are dead, Arandulë," he said. "They died in the war."

Startled, Arandulë returned her attention to him immediately. She nodded once.

"My mother, the Lady Galadriel, did not die in the war. Instead—she—" He drew in a deep breath, and went on. "Instead she was taken. Taken by force, do you understand what I mean? Not to satisfy the lust of some rough man or mad Orc. Instead—" Emotion outreached the constraints of language. He stopped and tried again. "Sauron feared that his downfall was near. In which event... I would live on, Arandulë, to prepare the way for his return. His child. _His heir._"

He had never seen eyes so wide.

"They hid it from me. But I discovered the truth, and I fled. I couldn't stay. Not if it meant pretending that nothing had happened, that I was still Lord Celeborn's son. But I swore, naively, that I would never seek fame, nor power, nor succumb to the will of the one whose heir I had been designated. I thought... like them... that I could be different..."

A mad grin crept onto his face. Arandulë looked horrified.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But don't you see the irony of it? Isn't it _funny_? A man who has more reason to hate Sauron than any other—accepting the Black Hand's rule—not just accepting it—wanting it. Imagine that man, so blinded by his desire for power and stability and control that he does not see... or want to see... as his most trusted official, Sauron's from the beginning, is taken over by even baser desires. Prepared to reenact the very deed of my begetting, and I do not see, not until it is too late—"

"Then he—!" Arandulë cried aloud, looking positively petrified.

"No, no. I—I killed him before he could do that."

He smiled another insane smile—he could feel the corners of his mouth unnaturally curving. "Yes, Arandulë. This is the great elven prince you have put into power. A traitor, and a liar, and a coward."

Arandulë did not reply. She was staring vacantly at the ground, her arms folded in a one-sided embrace. Tears were streaming down her face. In the silence, Findur slowly became aware of the rapidity of his own breathing, the tenseness of his muscles as he loomed over Arandulë's small form.

"And now," he said. "Thinking he is reformed, he proceeds to browbeat an innocent woman, horrifying her for his own selfish gratification. Forgive me... I did not mean..."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Arandulë softly, letting her arms fall to her sides and sniffling a little. "You told me the truth. I don't know how long you've been lying, but you told—and that was what I wanted." Her voice was choked. "I only hope that she—that she—"

There were no words, of course. Why should there be? With the spontaneity of Arandulë's clumsy speech and trembling glance, Findur felt another veil tear and fall away. Behind it was a portrait of a people. He saw the mighty branches of trees in this elf maiden's long, woven hair, and the trembling of stars in her eyes, and felt that, even if the people of Greenwood could never, never forgive him, at least the crime would be etched like a testament in their faces, never to be forgotten.

"I only hope—" Arandulë tried once more, but faltered.

"So do I," said Findur.

He could not decide if she was angry or not. Everything about Arandulë seemed to be numb, her mannerisms imbued with a sort of calm acceptance that asked no questions and passed no judgment. When he asked her to go down to the city and reinforce the news of his abdication, she nodded and said nothing. Only as she was leaving did she ask what should be done with Curuan's body.

It was a blunt question, and a horrible one. Guilt, to Findur, had been a sort of hollow chagrin, the aftermath of broken windows and skipped lessons. Weightier crimes produced something intense and visceral, mingled inexorably with love. Never had it been quite like this—a disease of the mind—a nervous shivering that shifted and rearranged his cognitive process and led him to the most unexpected realizations.

Findur. Dark-haired. Shadow-son. Fire lord.

_Kinslayer._

When Findur spoke, his mouth was dry and his voice shaky.

"Bury him properly," he said. "He was an elf, and a warrior. I do not know what he suffered in captivity, but he was not the first of our people to be turned to dark purposes."

He stopped when he realized that Arandulë was staring at him intently. Before he could ask her what was wrong, or react in any way, she had strode over to him, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed his brow.

"You escaped," she said, staring at him what Findur recognized for the first time as misguided love. He shook his head and gently pushed her away.

"Curuan escaped as well," he said. "Sauron wished no harm against Liniel. He forbade Curuan to... to attempt what he did. Curuan died in an act of rebellion."

When she was gone, Amroth stepped forward. Something about his face was very stiff and strange, and a sense of despondency filled the room. The memory of Arandulë's acceptance seemed ridiculous, like a pantomime of a love story.

"So," Amroth said, his voice a toneless whisper. "That is the answer to all our questions. The Shadow is here. In Eregion. With you."

"Was," said Findur, and immediately wished he had not spoken. "I think—he has gone now," he explained hastily.

There was a pause, during which Findur readied himself for the onslaught of accusations, recriminations, and outright threats.

"You have not yet broken your fast," Amroth observed.

Findur felt an offer of breakfast was hardly an appropriate sentiment under the circumstances. "I'm not hungry," said Findur. When he saw Amroth open his mouth to protest, he groaned. "Please, do not harry me. I cannot eat—not when—" He threw a desperate look in Liniel's direction.

"I understand," said Amroth. "Then... we will go directly to business, and you will help me to understand something that I do not understand."

Findur saw for the first time a carefully guarded anger in Amroth's eyes.

"I want to understand, Findur. I do not know what _I_ would have done... but..."

"You want to know why I did it."

He searched the recesses of his mind, trying to unearth the faintest ghost of a response, and found nothing.

"I don't know," he said, in slow realization. "I don't know why I do anything. I do things because they appeal to me. There are reasons, of course, appearances and charades and power struggles to resolve, but I don't decide to concern myself with them. They simply are, and there's always just one way to navigate them."

Amroth threw him a skeptical look. "Everyone makes choices, Findur."

Findur considered the sense of this. He remembered walking the old path through Greenwood, not knowing what he would do when he came to a fork in the road. He'd halted, of course, but not of his own volition. Instead, an enchanted river had blocked his path, and a cry of stop! had slowed his steps. It had been so easy to fall in love with Liniel. A vision had shown him their future, and suddenly he had found it reflected in his own heart.

"I chose not to choose, then," he said.

Other things he had seen: Imladris burning. A valley of ashes. Memory, though, had dulled them, the images sliding effortlessly through his consciousness, softened by the very fact of their inevitability.

What? No, now he was making things up. _All that you have seen holds a certain truth, but none of it is inevitable, Liniel had said._

Imladris burning, beautiful and terrible, wreathed in flames.

What else had she said? Why couldn't he remember? His memory was normally flawless, but now he was misconstruing images and sensations, every memory colored by his current state. What else had she said?

Ah, yes. _It is said that the complexity of such visions depends in part on the beholder himself... his willingness to see._

Findur, staring idly at the ground, saw the trampled-down grass beneath his feet.

Imladris burning.

It would be a way to do it.

"Perhaps you should stand back," he said aloud to Amroth.

Less than thirty seconds later, open to the scrutiny of the elven king's tremulous gaze, a small and self-contained flame was flickering at their feet, consuming the dry grass at a speed that only Findur's careful unseen tending kept in check.

"Oh," said Amroth. And then, "But you did not speak—or sing—or—"

"It's what I do," said Findur miserably, fully aware of the self-pity audible in his voice. "I start fires. I start fires, and I make things, and I somehow convince people to like me. And when _he_—" He shook his head. "I thought there was no other choice."

He looked down. With the lapse in his concentration, the fire had begun to spread. He extinguished it with a glance.

"Findur," said Amroth. "It does not have to be that way. You know now there is a choice. And I assure you that there is more to you than starting fires."

Findur shrugged, walking back to Liniel's side and kneeling, taking her hand in his.

"Not enough," he murmured.

If only he could do it. If only he could die, and exchange his fiery _fëa_ for her own... (1)

His mental processes came to a screeching halt.

He let go of Liniel's hand, and regarded his own, palm up, fingers extended. He let his mind relax in the old way, and felt a nimbus of heat surrounding his hand—not fire, but kindled air.

"Findur?"

He remembered something else, something that had happened long after the night of his vision.

Liniel would sketch sometimes at the dinner table, with worn cloth napkins as her canvas and a spare piece of graphite or charcoal as medium. Halfway through the main course, she'd hold up a rough miniature masterpiece, smiling and asking him what he thought.

Once she had drawn what Findur had taken for a tree, with long limbs and tangled branches against a woodland backdrop. When he'd complimented her on her landscape, she'd given him an incredulous look, and handed him the drawing, bidding him to return it when he worked out the actual subject of the sketch.

Three weeks of scrutiny had come to naught, and Findur had been ready to admit defeat. Was there some deeper meaning to said tree that he had passed over? Something in the forest that he'd missed?

One morning, while trimming his fingernails, his gaze had randomly fallen over the sketch, laying on the table beside their bed.

It was different this time. Instead of an old tree, he saw an image of two lovers embracing, bodies tall and lithe, hair wild and entwined.

"Dear," he'd begun aloud, "did you—?"

But she hadn't changed the sketch, or made the slightest alteration. What he had mistaken for a tree _was_ the lovers, and had been all the time.

Now, feeling the warmth of his hand, a thousand preconceptions rearranged themselves just so, resolving in a single image, one that he had never seen and whose presence he had never guessed at. Peril dissipated, and words fell away. There was only Liniel, and this new thing, transparent as a gem, waiting for him like an unused gift that he could not recall having received.

Could this work?

Once more, he took Liniel's hands—both of them, and tightly. He closed his eyes, and bent his mind upon the thing he needed to do, not gripping it like a vice, but enveloping her body in the sea of his thoughts. Soon, it was as if she were a part of him... part of the fire...

_Gently now. Not fire, only warmth. Think: the glow of the hearth in the Hall of Fire. Gentle music. Dark and golden and silver heads. Feel it. Be there._

He passed into a world beyond words, all bright eyes and soft elusive shadows, enveloped in warmest love.

Energy transformed and flowed from skin to skin, traveling through the circuit of their joined hands.

The fire spread. Particle quickened particle; blood trembled and stirred, making its courses down separate vessels, flooding skin and organs with warmth.

"Findur!" cried Amroth breathlessly.

Findur opened his eyes and saw that Liniel's cheeks were flushed with color, her lips slightly parted.

A spasm of hope stabbed his heart. "Liniel," he whispered.

And then, almost silently and with closed eyes. "Please. Please. Elbereth... Varda... I know I have failed... Do not hold her accountable."

"Findur?"

Findur opened her eyes to find Liniel staring back at him. She was still very pale, but her eyes were bright.

The world seemed to change at that moment, grow brighter and richer in hues, with more air to breathe. Findur became suddenly aware of the white of the tent, the soft blue of Liniel's bedclothes, the beautiful gray of her eyes. He exhaled deeply, and tried to smile.

"You—you wouldn't wake," he said.

"I... I don't think I remembered how." Her voice was very hoarse.

Amroth, whose presence Findur had all but forgotten, swooped down with a cup of water. "Are you thirsty?" he asked.

Liniel nodded, and Findur took the cup, helping her to hold it to her lips. She drank deeply. When she was done, Findur set the cup on the ground beside them.

When he returned his attention to Liniel, he found her eyes darting about, taking in the tent and Amroth and her own bower. "Where are we?"

"We are with friends," said Findur.

"You were praying. You were asking forgiveness." Her speech was languid and disjointed, giving it a dreamlike quality. "Then what Curuan said was true."

"What did he say?" he asked warily.

"He said that... that you were Sauron's. Both of you were. But Curuan would not abide by his rule any longer. Sauron would be furious, but he didn't care. He was his own man, not a puppet like you, and this was his first act as a free man..."

"He's dead," said Findur. He could think of nothing else to say, no way to justify himself to Liniel. "I—I'm—"

"Please don't apologize." There was a certain desperation in her voice. _Please_, said her eyes, _don't make me remember, in turn, the apologies I owe you. The betrayals on both sides. The shattered past._

"I can't forget," he told her. "I've forgiven you; you need not say a word, but you must know—"

"I do."

Her nonchalance made him feel vaguely nauseated. _Have I done this to you, Liniel? Have I made you so complacent?_

"Liniel," he said aloud, and with the single word, dearer to him than any word, he burst into tears like a child.

Liniel inhaled sharply, blinked. She laughed, then made a sound like a sob.

"Please don't—" she began, then stopped. Finally, she whispered, "Findur... I'm confused."

"So am I," he said, leaning forward and caressing her brow, her cheek, her lips. Then he lay his head beside her, still crying, but feeling strangely filled. He remembered Arandulë's calm eyes. He remembered the flurry of golden hair rushing past the tent. He remembered Curuan's youthful body in a pool of blood. The impressions tore across his unconsciousness like shards of broken glass, cold and terrible... and real.

"I'll not run again," he murmured, and Liniel's hand found his, and gripped it. It was what she had wanted to hear.

  


After that they were alone, as two people in a crowd can be alone. Amroth left, and Findur remained at Liniel's side, listening to the sound of tents being collapsed and messages being shouted across the encampment. A portion of the camp was mobilizing, explained a fair-haired man who brought them a very late breakfast of waybread and cool, sweet water. They would meet Elrond's forces in Imladris and coordinate their strategies from there.

Findur felt light-headed from this intrusion of reality, and even stranger when he realized that Liniel knew nothing of the upcoming war. He told her everything, in low and urgent tones, and she listened unflinchingly. When he observed her silence and asked her if she was all right, she told him that she was having a love affair with pain, and that once they had had their tryst, she would return to him once more. She smiled at her joke, but he could not bring himself to do the same.

They both ate heartily, and Liniel sat up, insisting that her wound hardly pained her. But neither Amroth nor Arandulë returned, leaving Findur to silently agonize over the fate of Ost-in-Edhil, Angmar, and the elves who were to make siege upon it.

Soon after they had finished eating, a new face peered into the tent. It nodded in greeting, and Findur hardly had time to take in its features before, with a flurry of blue cloth and dark hair, its owner was kneeling beside him, setting some medicinal supplies on the ground.

"I have come to change the lady's bandages, if I may," said the medic, the piercing luminosity of his eyes resting upon Findur for a moment before attending to Liniel. "You really should not be sitting up," he told her. He was very well-spoken, but his voice was unemphatic, marked only by a veneer of good humor.

Liniel opened her mouth to protest, but her argument deteriorated to a sigh. She shook her head with a tired humor, but lay down once more. Findur helped her adjust her pillows to compensate for the change in position. All the time, he watched the medic out of the corner of his eye. The man's face was strange, his strong, angular features put into relief by a softly curving mouth, and his eyes... his eyes...

A spark of some emotion, bordering on epiphany, stirred in Findur's consciousness, but quickly it plummeted down from whence it came. He was weary and teasing himself with false patterns.

Meanwhile, the medic had begun working on Liniel's blood-stained bandages, carefully unwinding them from about her middle. This operation required her to sit up after all, earning the medic an offended glare from his patient.

The medic smiled, shrugged, and continued his work, his fingers moving deftly as he finished unwrapping the bandages. Removing the ugly remains of some kind of poultice, he came to the wound itself, a jagged gash across discolored skin that nevertheless had begun to knit together to form an ugly, but harmless, scar.

The medic produced a clean cloth and a phial of amber liquid from a small leather case strapped to his belt. "To reduce the swelling," he explained, and spilled some drops onto the cloth. He pressed the cloth against the open wound, allowing the liquid to spread evenly across the skin.

"May I?" asked Findur softly.

Liniel stared at him as if he had gone mad.

"Of course," said the medic. He handed the cloth to Findur. "Be gentle, of course, and don't rub. It's more of a blotting motion."

Findur nodded. Leaning forward, he pressed the cloth against the wound, mimicking the medic's movements. The fabric was very soft, like a fine silk, and Liniel's skin was surprisingly warm to the touch. Of the three of them, he felt that _he_ was the most surprised. He'd never treated a wound in his life, and it had never occurred to him that the same agility of motion that allowed him to bend and temper metal could be applied to such a dissimilar vocation.

_Don't get ahead of yourself, Findur. Bandages and phials are a far cry from the fine and subtle art of healing..._ He smiled. Involuntarily, he had been thrust into a distant memory of childhood instruction in the rudiments of medicine. He could still hear Master Elrond's voice droning on: _Healing is a fine and subtle art, one that relies on the most fundamental resources of the practitioner. It is a spiritual exercise as much as a physical one. A man does not merely heal..._

"He _is_ a healer," Findur finished aloud with a laugh, and for a moment it was as if he were still Findur of Imladris, and nothing had changed since then, and no one was going to war over anything.

Liniel let out a long breath, a gentle note that brought him back to reality.

"You laughed," she said. "You've not smiled once today, not even ironically. It was rather terrifying."

Findur did not know what to say, and concluded that words were worthless. The amber liquid exhausted, he set the cloth aside. Then, spontaneously, he took her hand in his and kissed her palm.

It took them both a moment to remember that the medic was still there, and, what more, that he was tapping his fingers in an aimless pattern on the ground.

"So you received that lecture too," he said, so quickly and quietly that Findur was sure he had misheard him.

"That old discourse on the joys of healing, I mean," the medic went on. "I suppose every child born in Imladris heard it in one form or another. _I_, of course, had the privilege of hearing it at least once a week. Mother would tease him about it dreadful—"

He cut himself off, smiling shyly in a way that softened all his features.

Findur narrowed his eyes. For the first time, he really saw the man before him: his pale blue, finely embroidered tunic, his dark hair, his strong jaw, and above all, the startling light of his eyes, which he now realized was all Galadriel's...

"I should have told you," Celebrían's son was saying. "I _am_ sorry. I wanted to see you; that is all. I did not mean to deceive either of you. My name is Elrohir, and, you see, I am—"

"Celebrían's. Yes." Findur nodded slowly, and added as a guilty afterthought, "I met your sister. She told me of you and your brother."

"I know."

"How much _do_ you know?"

"Everything, now." Elrohir gave him a reassuring look. "I am one of the very few who do."

There was a pause. Elrohir took the opportunity to begin bandaging Liniel's side with clean cloth strips.

Liniel, meanwhile, was regarding Findur with a very hard and thoughtful look. She turned to Elrohir.

"What are Elrond's intentions regarding my husband?" she demanded.

It was a question that Findur had been deeply preoccupied with since Liniel's awakening. He waited to hear what Elrohir would say.

Elrohir did not speak at once. He studied Liniel for a moment. "I remember you now," he said, with all the coolness of a medic making small talk with his patient. "You came to Imladris. You spoke with my father."

Liniel did not reply, but her eyes burned. It was, Findur realized, the effect Elrohir had been aiming for.

"Liniel, peace," he said. "We are among friends."

"Friends who imprison us. Friends who will gladly punish us—not that we don't deserve—" But she stopped. Apparently, that subject was too delicate to broach, no matter what rewards it might offer on the verbal battlefield.

"You are not held here, lady," said Elrohir. "As soon as your health has returned, you are free to go as you wish. As for your husband, we do not retain him here in malice. My brother and I are simply to escort him to Imladris. You will find that the elves of our household are not interested in vengeance, nor blood sacrifices, like the heathen Men might use to appease their gods."

"No," muttered Liniel under her breath. "Only the Silvan would stoop so low."

Findur knew she did not mean it, and was only retreating to old prejudices to guard herself against the winds of change. Staring blindly at the browning trampled grass beneath him and remembering the flames that had blazed there just a few hours before, he forced the aimless argument to a climax, and said the thing that was heavy on his heart.

"After Imladris... I hoped to fight, if you will let me."

"Are you _mad_?" screamed Liniel with as much volume as her weak lungs could muster, a veritable inferno now blazing in her eyes. "Even supposing they allowed you to go—and that I doubt—"

"Now that we have finally recovered you," Elrohir admitted, "I do doubt that the household will be inclined to watch idly as you ride off to death and destruction."

"Why not? You'll ride, won't you? You and your brother. It was my war. I put that idiot Dolgubêl in power. I was the one—"

"Findur, hold your tongue," muttered Liniel peevishly.

_What do you know of it?_ Findur wanted to cry, but he set his jaw and remained silent.

Liniel saw this. She sighed and gave him a gentle mocking look. "Shall we never argue, then, dear?"

_Yes. We shall never argue, and Naurhir shall save us all._ "I'm sorry," he said.

Elrohir had finished Liniel's bandages. He gave her a clear liquid to drink for the residual pain, although Findur suspected ulterior motives connected with the silence that followed as Liniel drank. He watched his nephew collect his materials, glancing at Findur peripherally as he himself had watched Elrohir.

"I do not know what my father will say," said Elrohir. "I am not sure he would wish such a burden upon you, not now. And, after all, there are other ways to do penance, Findur."

It was something that his sister might have said.

That night, Liniel was able to sit up without pain. She could even walk across the tent when no one was looking and Findur was too weary to argue. In the exhilaration of her recovery, he had kissed her, then remembered they were supposed to feel distant and self-conscious and stopped. Liniel had smiled, though, and returned the gesture in a pointed disavowal of such feelings. But the second try had only made their truth the more inescapable, and Findur and Liniel had found themselves forced to settle for a wordless embrace that lasted until Amroth arrived with promise of a proper meal and news of Ost-in-Edhil.

"They'll not march?" asked Findur quickly. They had walked outside to talk, giving Findur a chance to return to the open air after a day of confinement by Liniel's side.

"They'll not march," Amroth confirmed. "We—or Arandulë, I should say; she seems to be intimately familiar with the entire city—explained that Curuan had attacked you and Liniel in a fit of madness, and that you were forced to defend yourself. It was news not altogether unbelievable of an elf who had undergone such horrors in Mordor. No one blames you, nor should they.

"As for the war, word of it had scarcely traveled. They'll hear more of your unsavory dealings later, no doubt, but as of now, you're nothing but a mysterious smith turned leader whose goings were as strange as his comings. They spoke highly of you, and many are still dubious as to your reasons for leaving them... but they will not mourn indefinitely. News of Legolas's kingship has been received with approval by even the hardest hearts among them. A few have already decided to return with him to Greenwood."

Findur nodded thoughtfully, and knew his words must sound trivial when, a moment later, he asked where his sword was.

Amroth pretended not to know what he was talking about. Findur, however, pressed the matter, and a bit of verbal backtracking revealed that, yes, Findur had been wearing a weapon when he had collapsed in the midst of the camp.

"I can find it if you like," said Amroth. "I had entirely forgotten its existence until you mentioned it now." He paused. "But... why do you want it?"

"I'm not staging a one-man armed rebellion, if that's what you fear," said Findur waspishly. He had adopted the mood ever since Liniel's health had improved; any undue pessimism or foreboding seemed profane in comparison.

"Yes... but what _do_ you want it for, then?"

Findur was lost for a suitable reply. The idea that had prompted his question was naive and ridiculous; he felt ashamed. Nevertheless, Amroth stood waiting for an answer.

"I wanted to give it to someone," he said quietly.

Amroth, who seemed to have an inkling of whom _someone_ might be, nodded and promised to find it, on the condition that he or one of Elrond's sons be present while Findur bore it.

"I do trust you, Findur, but..."

"Yes, yes," said Findur impatiently. "I scarcely trust myself, so you should hardly be the exception."

They parted then, with Amroth promising to bring him his weapon after the evening meal, and Findur returned to Liniel's tent. Slim, strong arms greeted him at the doorway, gripping his shoulders and bringing him into an embrace.

Findur allowed himself to be enveloped in his wife's arms, but at a length he pulled away, giving Liniel a dubious look. "If you don't rest—" he began cautioningly.

"They told me I may walk a little, as long as I'm careful. And I need to regain my strength. I have decided to go with you to Imladris."

He had been afraid she would try something like this. "And you called me mad? You're in no shape to walk, let alone—"

"They have horses, Findur." Her face was all serenity, and it looked strange. "I'll be fine."

She came close and rested her head on his shoulder blade, and he felt protected as well as protecting, and hated himself even as he loved her.

  


Amroth had delivered his sword as promised, washed of blood and polished well. Called off on some technical business concerning the packing of tents, he had appointed Elladan to keep Findur company.

Elladan looked identical to his brother, down to the arrangement of his hair. He did favor a deep red tunic rather than a blue one, but that was the only differentiating trait Findur could detect. Likewise, Findur was sure there were subtle shades of differences in their mannerisms and personalities. What precisely they were, however, he was lost to say.

Only a few minutes into their acquaintance, Findur was compelled to visit a remote point amongst the scattered trees that bordered the meadow, which had been designated as a lavatory. Unwilling to part from his sword, he was graced with Elladan's accompaniment.

"What, are you afraid someone will take it and hide it while you're away?" asked Elladan with a bemused smile, as they trudged down to the forest.

Findur's reasoning was rather more backwards, and had to do with maximizing the number of minutes he had over the next day to bequeath said sword without actually actively seeking out his intended recipient. He did not reply.

Needless to say, he was taken aback when, some distance from the beginning of the trees, he quite suddenly beheld a pale-haired figure on the horizon, returning from the very destination he was approaching.

Findur and Legolas came within a few yards of each other before both stopped, staring.

Findur had already planned what he was going to do when he first encountered Legolas. It involved bending on one knee and uttering graceful words of apology. Now, he found he could not look the elf in the face.

_He really looks remarkably like his brother._

The thought seemed truer than any association between this tall, slender man and the small creature he had known in Greenwood. Legolas had Thranduil's sharp gray eyes, which Lórimir had shared, and a bearing that bespoke gentility. He was slim, but there was a tautness to his limbs and back that gave a definite image of agile strength. His young face served as an ideal instrument for expressing emotion. Right now, a maelstrom of confusion and resentment was visible upon it. Amroth, Findur decided, had not told him of Findur's heritage or his involvement with Sauron. There was not quite enough outright revulsion in his eyes for that.

Findur withered beneath the power of those eyes, and found himself uttering the last words he could have imagined himself saying in greeting to Legolas, out of sensitivity as much as anything.

"You brother was one of the most generous and clear-sighted people I have ever known," he said in a voice that was not quite his own. "He was guilty of no crime. I should have died that day in his stead."

Legolas's eyes slowly rose to meet Findur's own. He spoke so softly that Findur had to strain to hear him.

"He wouldn't have wanted that." His voice was gentle but intent. "He wished ill of no one."

"Do—do you know why I speak of it?"

"I've guessed." Bitter humor danced in Legolas's eyes. "Later, when I looked back upon the events, I remembered you and realized how deeply my father had depended on you. My mother thought I was making things up. She'd liked you very much. Surely, she said, you would have tried to convince him _not_ to do what he did...

"She was wrong, wasn't she? And look! You would have led all of Greenwood to murder if you had had the opportunity, is that not right?" His eyes blazed even as his voice broke. "Would you have done it, if that man hadn't gone mad and frightened you out of it? What, was it too terrifying to see what your purported designs meant before you eyes? Wasn't my brother's death enough to dissuade you?"

The hatred and sorrow audible in Legolas's voice was not the purifying fire Findur had hoped for. Instead, he could only gaze at this boy-king wearing his brother's face and speaking words that only began to express the horror of what Findur had done. He tried to think of some reason that he should not kneel on the ground and ask to be slain with the same sword that he had purported to present to him, save for the vain hope that he could somehow begin to set right his transgressions.

Nevertheless, he clumsily removed his sword and laid it, sheath and all, at Legolas's feet.

"I want you to have this," he said. "You can discard it, or... I don't care. I don't mean for it to have any significance, or satisfy any debt. I will always be in your debt. I cannot begin to utter the first letter of an adequate apology. I wish there was something more I could do."

Legolas eyed the sword suspiciously, as if it were some kind of dead animal. He said nothing.

"I'm sorry," said Findur, feeling far worse than he had when he had begun. "I'm so..." He shook his head. "I'll go now." He pushed past Elladan, who also looked very sorry, and continued on his way to the trees.

When he returned, the sword had gone. So had Legolas.

"He took it?" asked Findur dubiously of Elladan, who had apparently not moved.

"First he threw it as far across the field as he could," said Elladan. "He has a very good arm. Then he retrieved it. He said that his brother would have taken it, and it would be somehow hypocritical not to do the same. He told me to thank you, because he didn't think he could manage the words himself." His steely eyes met Findur's. "That was a very good thing of you to have done."

Findur shook his head. "What does it matter in comparison to what have I done?"

"It mattered to Legolas," said Elladan simply.

In Elladan's words there was hope of redemption. Findur thought of Legolas. He wondered what Greenwood would be like when its king returned.

_Redemption_, he thought—and for a moment, he, too, hoped.

The next day, in the darkness before dawn, the camp stood almost empty. Illuminated by the thin red line of the coming day, Amroth's people could be seen beginning the march to Imladris. They went on foot, but already they looked the part of an army—their gray cloaks uniformly fastened, swords at their sides. The king of Greenwood was among them, bearing Findur's sword. He would fight, he said, for his people first, and only then think of reestablishing a kingdom.

Before the lines of departing elves, however, was a fairer sight. There galloped a white horse, its flanks gleaming as the sun ascended. It parted the golden fields easily, and often the gray-clad figure on its back leaned forward to whisper words of speed in the steed's ear. It was the last messenger of Naurhir, and it was upon this distant sight that Findur, standing amidst the remaining tents and holding Liniel close, fixed his eye, not looking away until the rider was a distant point against the approaching dawn.

* * *

1. fëa - roughly, an elven soul


	19. Homecoming

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.  
**Timeframe:** T.A. 265. Late spring.  
**Rating:** PG-13 for the usual.

**Shadow Child  
Chapter XIX: Homecoming**

Darkness greeted the weary eyes of Maedír, guard of Angmar, as he drew back the curtain of his sleeping alcove and peered out into the narrow corridor of the quarters of the Second Company. He rose silently and stretched tired arms, staring blankly into nothingness.

Maedír had dwelt under Lord Dolgubêl's rule for five years, but he was still not accustomed to the seasons of the Far North. At home, in his little village on the North Downs, the sun would already have begun to rise, affording even the earliest morning watchman a little light. But in the northern wastes of Angmar, the days lengthened slowly. A morning in late spring might as well have been midwinter.

Maedír frowned, and would have glared defiantly at the ceiling - signifying sky and relevant gods at once - if he had been able to see it. Instead, he began a blind walk to the chamber at the end of the hallway, where basin and chamber pot were waiting at his disposal.

After he had finished his business, he returned to his alcove, changing quickly into the light armor he would wear during his shift. It was of Elvish make, lightweight and finely crafted, and seemed to do more against the chill air than the thin, rough tunic and leggings he wore beneath it. Lastly, he jammed his feet into his boots - sturdy, finely-crafted boots of black leather; he had bought them in Fornost a long time ago, during one of his few visits to the city - and went out into the street.

Outside, it was no brighter than within, and a great deal colder. A lonely wind swept across the northern plain. Angmar almost seemed the jail its name implied, a barren skyline interrupted by blocky buildings and the occasional scarecrow tree. Across the way, he saw Îbal, a fellow guardsman of somewhat higher rank, emerge from an identical building.

"Morning, Mae," called Îbal with his usual careless familiarity. They met in the middle of the empty road and began walking towards their post at the city's fortifications.

"Morning?" Maedír repeated with a laugh. "A good night, I think, would be more appropriate."

They talked as they went - about the rationing that had been imposed in anticipation of the upcoming war, making breakfast a luxury, and about the war itself.

"And to think that there would be no war at all, if Arnor had not acted with such hostility," said Maedír in conclusion to a detailed analysis of the war's causes. "They speak of raids on their borderlands. Little have they cared about those lands, and the people who dwell there, in the past. No, they fear us, fear the challenge we present to their rotting aristocracy. Everyone knows it."

He could not, at that moment, have said whom "everyone" was, only that they existed and were correct.

"You can be sure of it," Îbal agreed, and began to complain at length about Arnor's - particularly young King Eldacar's - hypocrisy. He was a Gondorian, and ridiculing the leadership of both realms was one of his favorite subjects. Maedír nodded, trying to look thoughtful, as Îbal listed Arnor's sins against its people, complained about its "aggressor's war", and ended with a smile and a declaration: "But I don't know why I go on like this. Arnor is as good as damned anyway. They may have a few Elves on their side - or what's left of their useless, self-absorbed nobility - but we have the upper hand. We have Eregion, the real thing, and men from Harad and the East if needs be."

They had come to the White Tower. The golden sun had finally begun to mount the horizon, stripping away the darkness that wrapped about the Tower like a cloak. The gate of the city, a stone and iron monstrosity wedged between mighty stone walls, stood not far from here.

Îbal fell silent and adopted a sterner face, preparing himself for the long shift. As they made their way to the gate, Maedír thought about what Îbal had said. He had heard a little of Lord Dolgubêl's dealings with men from the South and East. Strategically, it made sense, but the principle behind it troubled him.

Maedír was no Dúnedan, and he was the first to admit it. Oh, his grandmother had been a true Númenorean, a lady of Annúminas who had unaccountably fallen in love with a rustic, but the blood made no difference. He was a man of the North, flaxen-haired and broad-shouldered, and was not in the least ashamed.

Nevertheless, something about Angmar filled Maedír's heart with fire. Not the place so much as the paradox: the recreation of a Western island in the Northern wastes, the rechristening of a people - Dúnedain and Hill-men alike - in anticipation of something dynamic and powerful. Arnor and Gondor were rock-hewn extensions of the past, while Angmar, Angmar was...

_Not iron jail._

Maedír was no Dúnedan, but through the apparatus of a windy, barren colony, he had become a true citizen of the Númenor that might have been. In his mind, he saw a dream-Angmar spreading south and west like a tidal wave, overcoming the hills and fields and plains, piercing the heart of Annúminas itself. In that Angmar, every peasant maiden of the Downs would be a lady of the Court.

Surely even Haradrim and Easterlings were capable of becoming part of this wondrous new reality. But would they? They were old allies, friends of the subversives of Gondor. Whatever their aims, the recreation of Númenor was not one of them.

And what, after all, _were_ their aims? Surely Lord Dolgubêl would not treat with men of darkness. Still, Maedír secretly wondered...

Was it right for Númenoreans to fight alongside men who had once served Sauron?

He shook his head, chiding himself, and began the assent to the top of the wall beside the gate. In his mind, he wrote off his thoughts as Unfounded and Seditious, and therefore Unthinkable. They likely would have remained thus defined if, a few minutes later, Angmar had not received a most extraordinary visitor.

An especially keen-eyed guard standing at Maedír's left was the first to speak. "A rider approaches," he cried. "Look there!" He motioned at a point in the distance.

Maedír squinted. All he could see was an indistinct white shape, barely visible in the half-light of dawn. Only as it approached could he make out horse and rider, and hear the rapid sound of hoofbeats striking the ground at a gallop.

"Have an arrow at the ready," commanded Îbal, just loud enough for all the guards to hear. Maedír placed an arrow on the string, but did not draw. He doubted this lone rider could be much of a threat. He looked up at the rider once more, and squinted into the darkness. There, upon the white steed's back, he could see a dark head and a cloak of uncertain color, whipping in the wind.

The guard to his left was leaning over the wall, peering intently at the rider. Finally, he said, "His dress and sword are of Eregion. An ally."

"_Albai_, then," muttered Îbal with an ironical smile. (1) Maedír did not know the word. It did not sound like Adúnaic. He had no time to speculate about its meaning, however, for the stranger was now nearing the gate. Soon, he stopped, looking up expectantly at the guardsmen.

"I bring word from Lord Naurhir," cried the rider. "May I enter?"

Maedír and the others shared a communal look of disbelief. The speaker's voice was high and clear. Had Naurhir sent a lone woman as his messenger?

Îbal was the first to shake off his surprise. With a brisk nod, he assented. Down below, two guards pulled the gate open. The woman dismounted and led her steed through the space, not flinching as the gate slammed shut behind her.

A guard from the door of the Tower itself had heard the commotion, and came forth to speak to the stranger. Maedír and a few other expendable guards scrambled down the stairs to meet him.

"A message for the Lord?" he heard the Tower guard ask. "You have ridden swiftly, I see... Have you received the news of battle, then?"

But the woman did not answer. Instead, even as Maedír came to the last step, she turned and gazed directly at him, and smiled softly. She had pushed back her hood, and Maedír found himself looking into the eyes of the first Elven woman he had paused to really look at. He could not understand how he had never bothered to look before.

Nothing about her was extraordinary, not really. She was tall, but not exceedingly so, and slight of figure, her straight brown hair in braids. Even her pale oval face had the only the ingredients of conventional beauty: large gray eyes and a sweet mouth that twisted in amusement at the sights around her.

And yet, when he tried to look away from her, he could not. What was it? The light in her eyes, that seemed to pierce the early morning darkness like a flame? The rosy hue of her cheeks? He could not say. He only knew that she was lovely, almost refreshingly so. Nothing about her was commanding or even particularly voluptuous. He wanted to kiss her, but more so to contemplate her beauty: to wonder about its source for hours and never come to a conclusion.

Somewhere in the midst of his musings, Maedír forgot to regulate his motion. He stumbled down the last stair, and with a strong sense of his own humiliation, hobbled over to where the guards, the beautiful lady, and now Îbal, were standing.

The Elven lady was saying with a smile: "Oh, no. I am not here to speak to your Lord Dolgubêl at all. I have a message, instead, for one of his men."

And then, to Maedír's utter amazement, her eyes met his once more, and she addressed him.

"It's you, isn't it?" she asked. There was an energy to her voice that was quite overwhelming. "He described you to me, and I didn't think I would know you, but of course I did. Your eyes are just like he said they would be." Seeing Maedír's surprise and discomfort, she smiled and paused to retrieve a sealed parchment from the leather purse at her side.

"I have brought a message, you see, from Lord Naurhir," she said, holding the letter out for Maedír to take. "A message for Maedír of Angmar."

  


Findur and Amroth had talked for a long time the night before Amroth's departure. He had gone north with Legolas and the rest of the camp, leaving Findur behind in the custody of Elrond's sons. Neither could be sure when they would meet again.

"It might be never," said Findur, staring pensively into the heart of the campfire beside which he and Amroth sat. Liniel was silent only because she was sleeping, her dark head resting in Findur's lap. Findur rather envied her.

"Hush," said Amroth. "I have no intention of dying in the near future. If all goes well, no one will."

"And if all does not go well?" He shook his head. "It's not enough. If only I could do something..." He bit his lip, plucking a few blades of long-bladed grass from the ground, and idly began to knot them together, weaving a tiny web of green and gold.

"You have done all you could."

"Perhaps. But is it enough?" He sighed, still braiding the blades of grass. When he spoke again, his words rambled and ran together at a breakneck pace. "Is it even right? Even if this war is averted, there may still be bloodshed for Angmar. To be the cause of that... I don't know. Sometimes I suspect that there is but one path, that I have already chosen destruction and cannot turn back. What then? Shall I take everyone with me into hellfire?"

Liniel sighed in her sleep and shifted. One of her hands lay beside her face, clutching Findur's knee like an infant. Amroth did not speak.

Findur continued in a subdued tone. "I don't know. I don't know a thing anymore. I've believed it was hopeless for so long... and then he came to me, and I accepted everything like a child, too naive and self-concerned to understand the implications of my actions. And now I want to fix everything; I want to change, Amroth, if you believe anything you must believe that. But my every attempt seems forced. Every time I feel sure that I'm in the right, I falter, and remember, and... I wouldn't have acted at all, had not Liniel persuaded me to go through with our plan. If I could only erase the past, and fix everything at once, and then go away for a long time... " He did not know what he was saying. Too many thoughts crowded his mind, where intuition and impulse had once reigned. He shivered, although it was not a cold night, and pulled his cloak tighter around himself.

"No one has that power, Findur," said Amroth. "I don't know what the Valar, or Sauron, or even you, are capable of, but I am fairly certain on that point."

"I know that," said Findur, but the inner storm did not subside.

He looked out at the diminishing camp. The meadow was a soft blue dream beneath the light of the sickle moon. Liniel's face was white and luminous against the dark leather of his leggings. Her gray eyes were soft and unfocused. He wondered what she was dreaming. _Let it be something peaceful,_ he thought, _from a time before the war. Perhaps she is standing in a rambling garden with her mother. Once she told me, not even afraid of the past: that they laughed together and ate blackberries from the bush, and that the door swung opened and her father, smiling, strode out and..._

"Funny," he said. "When she first asked me to stay—to marry her—I refused. As if I already knew I would hurt her."

"Do you think _she_ would have preferred that?"

"What she prefers usually comes down to nothing. She never wants anything that's good for her."

Amroth raised his eyebrows. "_She_ never wants anything that's good for her?"

"That's not the point," said Findur. "_I'm_ not good for her. For anyone, but especially for someone like Liniel."

"Because you are the child of Sauron."

"Yes."

"No, I can't accept that. You are the son of Galadriel as well of as Sauron. And... what does either matter?" Amroth shifted his eyes downward, smiling reflectively. It was a bitter smile.

"People in Greenwood and Lórinand," he continued, "tell the story of Emelien and Amdír Malgalad nearly as often as that of Beren and Lúthien. They think it romantic. I can assure you, it is nothing of the sort. I loved my father, but I will not pretend that my parents' choice was anything but a mistake. A noble mistake, a well-intentioned mistake, but one that resulted in my mother's death. People think it romantic, but when the subject of their king's less than stainless lineage comes up, they whisper, and make denials, and even pretend to be proud of a tryst that never should have happened. They know in their hearts that it is not a story of love, but of the shortsightedness of one proud king under the threat of Sauron's growing rule, insistent on marrying off his son and continuing his line, like a king of men, and all that resulted is nothing but horror." He sighed deeply. "I do not mean to compare my situation with your own. What I mean to say is... that... we are not our pasts, Findur, and certainly not our parents. You cannot change what you have done, but what good is it if your regret restrains you from living? How can you repent then?"

"I do not think you entirely understand what I _have_ done," said Findur dubiously.

But at those words, the light went out of Amroth's eyes, and his jaw went firm. "I know," he murmured so softly that his lips hardly moved. But he stared out into the distance, still and unblinking.

Findur realized what he had said, and felt embarrassed. "If I could only undo..." he began futilely.

"You can't," said Amroth. "You are not responsible for Sauron's crimes. Nor could you ever undo them. My father decides his own fate now... and if things go as they did for Finwë and Míriel, that choice may be a hard one for us all." He shook his head. "I was stupid, as a child, to have taken him for granted. Promise me, Findur, that you'll not do that—that you'll value the present—and the debt towards me that you feel is yours will have been paid."

  


Three nights after Amroth's departure—two nights after their own journey north had begun—Findur took Amroth's advice to heart. They had stopped for the night on the plains of northern Eregion, and most of the small escort stood on watch or was asleep. By the light of a dying fire, Findur sat beside his wife. Neither spoke; both pairs of eyes were on the tiny flames. Their arms pressed together, but Findur moved no closer. To put an arm around her seemed a dangerous procedure. What if her reaction was not favorable?

_I'm afraid of my own wife_, he thought morosely, and then, _This can't be. Not like before, a veil of silence, love as an unacknowledgment. That is how we came to this._

He felt his eyes tear, and swallowed his fear and inferiority. "Darling," he said, "we must talk about this."

Liniel started, half-asleep in her contemplation. "About what?" she demanded irritably, and then, after a space: "No talk. Not now. We should sleep."

"I've hurt you, and—"

"Findur, please, not now."

"When, then?" he demanded.

With an audible sigh, Liniel drew her knees up to her chin, staring blankly at the fire.

"Fine," she said. "Talk."

Findur wanted to retort that two people, not one, were required to talk for a conversation to take place. But arguing would only change the subject. Besides, if he knew her, she wouldn't be able to keep her mouth shut for long.

"I've hurt you," he repeated.

No answer.

"I've been an idiot. More than an idiot. I've betrayed you. I've—"

As expected, Liniel turned to face him. "Don't flatter yourself," she said. "I am to blame as much as you are."

That, on the other hand, had not been expected.

"You!" he exclaimed. The claim seemed outrageous. Quickly, Findur began assembling the list of his crimes. "Liniel, all this time, I have lied to a people, promising them hope even as I promised Dolgubêl his kingdom. I told myself it was a game—I no longer cared—allowing _him_ to remain with us after I knew what he was—"

"What Curuan did," said Liniel quietly and tersely, "has nothing to do with any of that."

"Oh, it doesn't?" cried Findur somewhat more vehemently than he had intended. "Shall I go back to Sauron, then, and apologize for my overreaction?"

"Keep quiet." Liniel's eyes darted towards at the sleeping forms and standing guards about them. "Of course you should never have... but even _he_ didn't want what... what could have happened." Sedately, she continued, "I was the one who allied myself with Curuan first. I was the one who ignored what I saw in him, because he had what I wanted. The one who lied to you. The one who told him of your identity after you confessed it to me—to me, your wife, whom you should have been able to trust. I never thought of it that way—but see where it's gotten us..."

"And I'm the one," said Findur softly, "who was becoming him, with all his callousness and cruelty, and didn't care until he tried to rape my wife." He looked at her. "Don't you see? I forgot what cruelty meant. I was forgetting to love you."

There was a silence that spanned ages. Alone with his thoughts, Findur could only revisit the waking vision that wove through his mind—Curuan's hand against Liniel's shoulder—his body pressing her against the wall—his shriveled lips against hers—

"Let's lay down," said Liniel suddenly. Findur felt in no position to argue. He allowed himself to be led to the grass, where Liniel laid out blankets and stripped down to a linen shift. It was a warm night, but Findur did not undress, removing only his belt and shoes. Then they both got into the makeshift bed, a layer of blankets separating they two from the rest of the world. Findur lay on his back, but Liniel turned on her side to face her husband. She reached out to touch his head, running her fingers through his hair, but came no nearer. She said nothing for a long moment, although her eyes were bright with thought.

"We are not," she murmured finally, in a somewhat abstract tone, "great people, you and I, Findur. We're clumsy, you know. We act in the most wretched of ways. We forget ourselves and each other. And all the time, we're certain that we're heroes. Larger than life. And we are, in a way. Everyone's this ridiculous, maybe, but we're more dangerous than the others. When we wound, it goes deeper. And that's why I chose you, Findur, I'm sure of it, because I knew I couldn't hurt you, and I don't want to hurt you. I've hurt everyone else but I knew - or I thought - that you were different."

Findur could not answer. He stared at the sky above him. It was partly obscured by cloud, but he nevertheless began naming all the stars he could find: _Menelvagor, Soronúmë, Anarríma, Remirrath, the Valacirca..._

"Well?" demanded Liniel, clearly disappointed with the reception of her speech.

Findur continued silently counting stars. He felt her fingers against his cheek like small icicles. "Are you such a fool that you don't even know what you're doing?" he asked finally.

"Doing? I don't know what you're talking about."

Findur glanced over at her. She was regarding him with a leonine air, dark hair framing an obstinate face. Beautiful and wrong.

"You make up these excuses," he said, realizing as he went along. "These poetries... none of it's real! Your crimson beaches and righteous indignation. Nothing's that perfect. We're not different. We're wretched and ugly and that's all. That's the end of it. There's no reasons. No saving graces. We're ugly like the rest of them."

Liniel looked down reflectively. She drew away her hand. Something in her eyes was strangely vulnerable. "But... you are different."

He sighed, rolling over to face her. "And so are you. But don't you understand? It's only because... because you make me feel differently." He had never framed love in such awkward terms before.

"I don't know what you mean... But it seems I don't know much of anything."

"Liniel..."

"It's fine. I'm fine. Let's not talk about it."

Findur felt drained. "I don't want to either," he said.

"Then we're agreed."

He tried to be satisfied by the silence that followed, but Amroth's voice came to him once more. _Promise me, Findur..._

"Liniel..." he tried again.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

"Please don't."

"I only..."

"Please don't."

I'd rather you hate me, he thought. _Do you remember when we met again, in Gondor, and we made love, still trapped in anger? That was the worst thing I ever did to you, Liniel._

But aloud, he said, "We can talk of it later, then." And more quietly: "I love you."

  


Springtime, thought Celebrían, was no time for war. Taking a late luncheon beside an open window, she felt life to be in perfect balance. Sweet air floated in from the gardens, fragrant with the mixed scents of blooming flowers. Beyond, she could hear the clamor of the Bruinen rushing down the valley slopes and past the house, its waters abundant with spring rain. Arwen hummed as she ate, and even Elrond refrained from discussing the situation in the north, preferring to talk of the recent birthing of a new colt in the stables.

Only one at the table seemed impervious to the weather: unspeaking, eyes lowered, plate almost untouched. What a change had come over Celebrían's father since Findur had come to Imladris. Subtle, at the start: he still went through his daily routines, smiled when spoken to. Smiled too perfectly, really, his eyes empty. In his pain, he had retreated inward, abandoning himself to the learned courses of living. Now, with Findur's return imminent, the facade had collapsed entirely.

Celebrían knew the source of his pain, felt it as strongly. She, too, had seen the change in her brother, his old well-meaning ambition all distorted, reduced to basest haughtiness. Impulsive, controlling, untrusting... How cold he had been to her on the stairwell.

Something more, yes. Doubts, fears, and buried deep, a desire to cast it all away. But self-interest had come out the stronger.

A messenger from Eregion had stopped briefly in Imladris before riding north; Findur, she said, had given himself up. Something unexpected had happened, it seemed, though Celebrían could not gather what.

Having broached the subjects in her mind, she felt the sharp anxiety that she had held within herself all the day begin to surface. A knot formed in her throat as she thought of her sons, closer to battle with each step, and of Findur, and of the dewy-eyed woman who had ridden on to Angmar in hopes of accomplishing a task that, Celebrían's intellect told her, was unachievable.

All of a sudden, she was aware of a figure clambering into her lap and wrapping its arms around her.

Celebrían laughed, looking at Arwen. "You're becoming too old for this, dearest," she said, embracing her daughter.

"But you looked so lonely over here, as if it weren't almost summer." She twisted and looked over her shoulder, across the table. "And you, Grandfather," she added chidingly.

Celebrían followed her daughter's gaze, eyes resting upon her father, and knew that his thoughts must be even ghastlier than her own, self-recrimination not least among them.

"Yes, you're very right," she said, and slid Arwen out of her embrace, standing. "If we have all finished..."

"Oh, I am quite done," said her father mechanically, standing as if on cue.

"Then we can all go out to the garden," said Celebrían. "It's a lovely day; it would be ridiculous to waste it inside. Besides, my flowerbeds are more weeds than flowers; I've been neglecting them all week."

Father looked awkward. "I was in the middle of recording some of Lindir's recent poetry," he began.

"Let Lindir record his own poetry," said Elrond, following his wife's cue. "He is the one who should know it best."

Father managed to smile. "Ah, but he doesn't. That's why he always asks me to do it. He uses poor penmanship as an excuse, but in fact he tends to invert lines and drop words after the initial recitation."

Arwen was stacking dishware; she had evidentially already decided that they were going, and soon. "I like Lindir's poetry very much," she said defensively. "The one about Gil-galad - the one composed in Quenya - is beautiful." And off-handedly she began reciting, in the fluid Quenya that her grandfather had taught her, " 'Gil-galad was an Elven king...' " (2)

"Not now," said Celebrían.

But Elrond finished, " 'Of him the harpers sadly sing.' " He turned to Father. "You will come then, Celeborn? When my sons are home, they'll expect a wrestling match with their grandfather. Instead, they'll find nothing left but a skeleton clutching a book in its hands."

Celebrían waited stiffly for her father's reply.

"Yes, yes," said Celeborn after a time, "it will be pleasant to be out in the sun."

  


Arwen began for the door immediately. She was, thought Celebrían with a maternal smile as she watched her daughter clutch her skirts around her knees and sprint through the halls, at that ridiculous age between childhood and adolescence, a tall girl-child whose gentle kindness was only matched by her verbosity. The others followed her, though with less energy. Celeborn, at least, seemed to be heartened by Arwen's self-conscious performance, for he quickened his pace and began walking beside her, listening as she recited the rest of "The Fall of Gil-galad" with incongruous levity.

Celebrían and Elrond fell behind, taking in the color of the flowers and of the leaves with the sunlight shining through them. Elrond put an arm around her and held her close, and told her in pretty words that he loved her, and that he could not glimpse the sky without thinking of her gaze, and several other things besides, until Celebrían broke into peals of laughter.

"I am sure," she said, "that all of Imladris wonders what their grave lord says to his wife in private. It _is_, of advantage, then, to actually be that wife..."

"The only advantage, I'm sure," said Elrond with a smirk, and kissed her before she could retort.

They walked on silently. Arwen and Celeborn could be heard chattering in the gardens below, the music of their voices blending with bird song.

"Oh, I hate this waiting," said Celebrían finally. "It will be today, you know, if they left right away. I only wish I knew a time, and knew - knew what he'll be like - for Father's sake as much as my own..."

"I know," said Elrond. He too, Celebrían realized, was apprehensive.

"Well, let's go on," she said. "I would like to finish before sunset. The gardeners may be more capable than I am, but it _is_ Mother's garden, and you know I like to tend it myself."

They went down amongst the flowers, and Celebrían began weeding, the others assisting by clearing away uprooted plants. The process would take some time, for a small forest of oak seedlings had taken root near the house and needed to be eradicated.

They had not yet finished when Elrond lay a hand on Celebrían's shoulder. She looked up and saw that both her husband and father regarded her with grave expressions.

She rose, feeling mildly dizzy, and brushed her hands on her skirt, not heeding the dirt stains she left behind. Stood still and listened, and heard it, the sound of hoofbeats and footfalls in the distance.

"Arwen," said Elrond, "Go inside and play in your room. Go to Elbrennil if you need anything."

"Stay here, Arwen," said Celebrían.

Arwen's eyes went wide. She instinctively stayed in place, waiting for further guidance in deciphering these two conflicting orders.

Elrond sighed heavily, turning to his wife. Quietly, he said, "I do not want her here when—"

"My brother surrendered himself willingly. He's done nothing to suggest that he is dangerous." 

"I did not say that he was dangerous. Though, if you mention it: we do not know what he has done."

"Maybe not," said Celebrían. "But she's not such a little girl anymore, and Findur will likely be here for some time. Better she see him now than later. I'll have no more secrets in this house. No more than necessary, at least."

Elrond frowned, and Celebrían knew he had given in. Meanwhile, the approaching party had come nearer.

"Come close, Arwen," commanded Elrond. "Stay near to me, and stay silent."

Arwen acquiesced, running to her father's side and latching onto his arm with an iron grip.

Celebrían took her own father's hand. "Come," she said. "Let us meet them." 

She did not pause to assess Father's reaction. Instead, she began walking, making her way down the garden path, to the tall meadow before the river. There they waited for the party to ascend.

A few moments later, figures appeared, walking and leading their horses up the stairs carved into the steep hillside. Celebrían saw her sons in the forefront, graver than they had left. A handful of Elves from Imladris, Greenwood, and Lórinand followed them. And, in the very back, head bowed, dark hair streaming before his eyes, was her brother. One look at his pallid face undid her fears and set new ones in their place. It was beyond anguished, almost skeletal in cast and countenance, a fire gone to ashes.

"It is really you," she whispered, and set to running, so that a minute later she was standing at the very edge of the bluff overlooking the Bruinen, holding her only brother in her arms.

  


Findur felt his sister's arms envelope him in a sudden, unexpected embrace. For a single overwhelmed moment, he thought of escape, but he put away the thought quickly. She was not speaking, but when he looked down at her face he saw that she was smiling and weeping all at once.

He had been sure, when he had seen her running towards them, that she was coming to greet her sons. After all that had passed... But her eyes had fixed on him, and now she held him close and whispered, "Oh, Findur. You don't know how we've missed you. You don't know..."

_You don't know_, thought Findur darkly. _You don't know what I've done._

But he did not say it aloud - not out of cowardice, but a need to protect her from the truth. To protect: it seemed his highest calling. As he wrapped his arms around her, he found himself carefully assessing her strength and girth, making sure not to injure her. Instinct became a mathematical process. All the world was made of glass, and he was the man with iron hands.

"I was not kind to you when I saw you last," he said instead.

"You frightened me."

"Do I frighten you now?"

Celebrían studied his face, as if looking for her answer in its lines. He wondered what she saw in it, how he was changed from the ambitious young blacksmith she had once known. She, he decided, had only become more herself, gentleness and sternness alike brought out by the demands of motherhood.

"You don't frighten me," she said finally. "But I'm frightened for you, Findur." She allowed herself a careful smile. "You really look terrible."

Findur was about to respond when he saw his sister's gaze shift to a point beyond him. He turned and saw that Liniel had dismounted, and was now surveying the scene with a purposefully nonchalant air.

Findur felt himself flush with irrational awkwardness. "This is Liniel," he told Celebrían. "My wife."

Liniel looked up at the sound of her name, only in time to be heartily embraced by his Celebrían.

"And my sister, then," said Celebrían with a laugh. To Liniel, she said, "You are very welcome." If she recognized Liniel as a certain messenger of Lord Naurhir, she gave no sign.

"Thank you," whispered Liniel, who looked uncomfortable and grateful at once.

Findur stared at his sister and his wife, Celebrían's hair silver-gleaming against Liniel's dark tresses. The image was so unexpected that it rather strained his mind, a paradox in living colors before him. And yet it was real, or had become real, just as a burning valley had become opening eyes... Just as he had stood in this place with his mother, and the men of Imladris had ridden back from war, and Mother had said, _Findur, this is your father_, and in that moment fantasy and reality had entwined, and Menelvagor had leaped down from the sky...

"Findur," said a voice, and Findur jumped, his eyes actually going skywards before they turned and fell upon Celeborn's form.

He looked at Celeborn a long time before he could speak. Things he had seen before—weary eyes, slumped shoulders, a face so etched with grief that he was reminded suddenly and unsettlingly of Curuan, though Celeborn's face was quite smooth—became daggers in his now-receptive flesh. _I've done this to him. Out of my selfishness and apathy and blindness, I have done this to my—_

Dare he say the word?

"Hello," was all he could manage. Mortals, he had once heard, vomited when they felt especially unnerved. He wished his own discomforts could as easily be purged. Guilt weighed on his mind like a stone.

Celeborn did not seem offended by his silence. Nor did he give him an embrace like Celebrían's. Instead, he commented dryly, "Strange, how things have reversed since last we met in this field." 

"You remember," said Findur.

"Do you think I could forget? I gave you my helmet to carry on the way up to the house. It was too heavy for you, but you insisted on carrying something."

"I wove Mother a crown of flowers," recalled Findur. "The buttercups were falling out and getting lost in her hair. She smelt like buttercups for days afterwards."

There was a pause, in which Findur wondered if memories were all they two could share now.

"Father," he began suddenly, voice strained, and then stopped, and realized what he had said, and feeling ashamed. For using that one word, _father_, all his previous omissions became glaring.

"I'm making an awful mess of this," he muttered.

But Celeborn placed a hand on his shoulder. "I am glad that you are here," he said softly, with obvious difficulty.

"You don't even know the extent of what I've done. You don't even know—"

"Let it wait. You are my son, Findur—you have always been my son. If you would allow me to be your father—?"

Findur nodded roughly, swallowing back the beginning of tears. And Celeborn embraced him, but his arms were like stones, and with the heaviness, Findur remembered his cold words to his father before the war had begun. _I hope this parting does not grieve you too deeply_, he had said with cruelest irony. And he knew that some things would not be so easily healed.

  


Then Celebrían gave Findur and Liniel each a hand, and like a goose leading goslings, brought them into the house. To Findur's surprise, she went down the old familiar hallway where his family's rooms had been clustered, and stopped before Findur's old room.

She opened the door.

Findur peeked inside, and had the acute sense that he was going backwards in time. His room was unchanged. There was his bed, a little neater than he had usually kept it, with fresh linens on the mattress. Beside it, a table covered with carvings and trinkets. Even his writing desk had the same collection of nibs and ink pots, arranged in a pewter tray he had forged himself. Through the window, he could see the old familiar view of gardens, the valley rising sharply in the distance. And beyond that, if he strained his neck, mountains...

"Thank you," said Findur, hardly knowing what to say.

"Well, go in," said Celebrían. "I'll return with water for the basin."

Findur walked into the room, Liniel following closely behind. He turned in a complete circle, taking in the sight, and then fell back onto his bed. The mattress responded beautifully to his weight, following the curve of his back as if it remembered him.

"This is your room?" asked Liniel, sitting beside him.

Findur stared up at the ceiling. Stars and vines that he had gazed upon for two hundred years were there, carved in the beams.

"It was," he said, as it dawned on him that he was home, whether he belonged there or not. Here was a world of people who knew him as Findur only.

"I can see it as yours," said Liniel. "I like the idea of you sitting in here... carving things..." She picked up a small wooden flute sitting on the nearby table. "You made this?"

"Yes. I was never very good at playing it."

"Hmm." It was a spasm of a laugh. Findur realized that she was afraid.

"You shouldn't be afraid of them," he said.

"Afraid?" said Liniel. "I'm not."

"You are. I can tell." He paused. "So am I."

"Then you have no right to persuade me to feel otherwise," concluded Liniel, and began to play his flute. She was not very good, either, though once she had sorted out the tones, the music began to stabilize into a wispy, rapid pattern, all dissonance, that reminded Findur of nothing more than a broken bellows.

  


That evening, Findur got his council room.

"I wanted to wait until tomorrow, that we might sit outside on the porch," said Celebrían as she accompanied them upstairs, "but Elrond thought privacy was a more pressing consideration than the weather. It is a gloomy room in which to wait the hours, though."

The room certainly was less welcoming than the rest of the house, with tapestries and dark carvings as its only ornamentation. Nevertheless, tall windows lined one wall, looking down over the valley. Now, they were filled with stars.

The three of them took seats around the long table that dominated the room: Celebrían beside her husband, and Findur and Liniel at the opposite end of the table. Between them sat his father, and Celebrían's sons, and to Findur's slight dismay, Erestor, Elrond's chief counselor.

_The whole of Imladris may as well be here_, he thought. _And I am to tell them everything._

What's more, I actually meant to do so.

When they had been seated, Elrond walked to the door and closed it. Then he returned to his seat. His eyes were shrewd but not unkind.

"To begin with," he said. "I do not think I must repeat what seems self-evident—that the things uttered in this room should stay here, unless I deem their communication fit. It is imperative that the truth of Findur's heritage remain unspoken, and that no one beyond the borders of Imladris remembers that Naurhir and Findur were one and the same. It is a secret kept out of necessity. He must not be endangered or taken advantage of by outside parties. For that is what has happened, has it not?"

"How much do you know?" asked Findur uneasily.

"I know that a man named Curuan, the man whom Narion spoke of, has been your aide—your mentor, more precisely—for many years," said Elrond. "I know the nature of his attack on your wife, for which I am much grieved."

"Attack?" exclaimed Celebrían, regarding Liniel with concern.

"He tried to rape me," said Liniel, softly but without hesitation, before Elrond could interfere on her behalf.

There was an all-encompassing, overpowering silence. Erestor's jaw dropped. Celeborn's eyes were cold flames. Only Celebrían whispered, "How could he—how could anyone—"

"There will be time to wonder later," said Elrond, who obviously had been as moved by the account. "But we must come to a point. My sons would not relate the story further, saying it is a tale to be left to those concerned. I must hear that tale." He paused, and added: "We will not leave this room until I do."

"You will hear it," said Findur simply.

And so he gave away the only empty consolation he had left: his secrets.

Forgetting caution and fear, he told all he could remember, from the very evening he had fled Imladris. He described everything, the coldness of a windowpane against his palm, the light of stars overhead. Following the thread of memory, he ventured on, passing over mountains to a wood where a woman and a vision waited...

He told, and as the waking dream of his memory grew more vivid, so grew its terror. A blow to his wife's face. A haggard figure amongst old tools. Prince Lórimir's face, stiffening and emptying of life, his form crumpling and toppling to the ground. He trembled, saying the thing aloud, but Liniel grasped his hand and he went on, voice clear if not strong, to Imladris and Lórinand (omitting only Mithrellas, though he knew he would tell his wife in private, all the same—_why can't I lie?_...)

Then Khazad-dûm.

Findur felt his face become ashen pale. He had not heeded the faces around him before, and now he tired to ignore their questioning eyes, wondering why he had stopped.

"I am the only person alive who knows," he said aloud. "Except—no—surely he knows..." He looked up, and announced, "There is a Balrog in the deepest mines of Khazad-dûm." He said the words very quickly, and tried not to notice their appalled faces as he explained how he had discovered it, and the words he had used to calm it...

Naurhir," repeated Celeborn—his father—faintly.

"Naurhir or not, word must be sent to Durin," said Elrond. "A Balrog... this is worse than I dreamt."

"But surely," said Liniel obstinately, "there is nothing to fear? For if it agreed to sleep until—"

She stopped.

"Oh," she whispered.

"What?" asked Celebrían slowly. "Surely you do not mean—you cannot mean—"

"Let Findur speak," said Elrond.

_Not yet._

Celebrían ignored him. "You said, Findur, that it would sleep until Sauron's return. That is what you said?"

_Not yet. To tell them—to see their faces when the realize that I have—_

But it was no good. He screwed up his courage once more, and forced himself to answer.

"Yes," he said softly. "That is what I said. And we are right to fear, for... for he has."

He had expected a violent reaction, but the room instead was draped with a kind of tangible silence.

Only Elrond spoke. "How do you know this?" he asked, in a carefully measured voice.

"You don't sound surprised," said Findur.

"We are not fools," said Celeborn sharply before Elrond could speak. "You know as well as I do that the One Ring, the seat of Sauron's power, was lost and not destroyed. Irrecoverably so, most likely, but as long as it exists in the world, Sauron's spirit cannot be wholly crushed. Yet we did not expect he would recover easily, if at all. More to the point—" And his voice, too, trembled. "How do _you_ know this?"

Findur would have liked to tell them at once, but too much lay between Khazad-dûm and the morning of his first journey to Imladris. Voice strained and stumbling, he quickly recounted his first dealings with Dolgubêl and Greenwood, the resettlement of Ost-in-Edhil, the establishment of Angmar. Aloud, he berated himself, marveling at how quickly he had entered into the charade of loyalty to Dolgubêl's cause, though not believing a word of it. Surely Sauron could not return. And yet... if Angmar did survive, how convenient it would be...

"You must understand," he said. "I became a tool of Curuan's long before I discovered the truth—what Nauron told you about him. I was what he made of me, even if I was stronger than him. So when..."

He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking not of shame or himself but _I must tell this_.

"The morning I left Ost-in-Edhil for Imladris—after you had summoned me—I met Curuan, as he had bid me to the night before. And there was a presence with us, and it... it was Sauron. He is not very powerful. I do not believe he was communicating with Curuan for more than a few weeks before he revealed himself to me. And he showed me... myself. And what I had become. And I saw that he had meant for Mother to raise me; I was his contingency plan in the case of failure. And I had become exactly what he had intended for me to become, as Naurhir—and I found that I could not argue—that I did not want to—"

There was a moment of stillness before the world collapsed around him in fury and tears.

_I have told them_, he said without words to the stillness.

_I hear you_, said the stillness, and told him the rest of the story: a man who turns the world to dust with a touch, and in the end learns to die. For, as his mother had told him once, death is just another kind of life. Flowers bloom after winter. "And mortals are blessed," she said. "For they are privileged with a life beyond ours."

"And us?" Findur had asked.

"We are mortal as the earth. But in our end, like theirs, something more will come. Like the last stroke of a painting, that gives sense to the image as a whole. And then I will show you Beleriand, and we will walk together amidst trees that have gone under the wave." Then she had laughed at herself, smoothed his hair. "My little jewel-child," she had called him, and chided him for letting her go on about fantasies.

In remembering her, he found strength. It was enough so that he could look up. There, on the other side of the table, were his sister and father, consumed with fury and undone with disbelief. "How _could_ you?" Celebrían was crying, even as his father demanded, "Do you understand what you have done?"

The strength was transitory. He felt himself plunge into the moment. He felt the seat beneath him, tasted the cool night air on his tongue. Reflection fell away. He let the shouting come, and took each exclamation like a dagger.

  


Standing under the shadow of the fortifications of Angmar, the morning sun beginning to make a tentative appearance, Maedír's heart was beating like he had just run a race. He took the letter with a shaking hand, his rough leather gloves briefly skimming across the Elven lady's smooth white skin.

"For _Maedír_?" exclaimed Îbal, looking down at the Elf in disbelief. "Surely there is some mistake... this is most irregular..."

But the woman give him an unexpected steely glare. "There is no mistake. I can assure you, the letter is intended for Maedír, and Maedír alone. If he wishes to share it with you, that is his perogative."

Maedír slowly tore open the parchment. It was undeniably genuine, set with the red seal of Naurhir. It was also, of all the ridiculous things, perfumed. A rich floral scent, almost like roses, was emanating from the parchment, moving through the still air with uncanny speed. Maedír thought it a preposterous accompaniment to a letter of business, and felt it as an affront to his masculinity. After a few moments of adjusting to the odor, though, it struck him that it was pleasant as well, a scent that would be right at home in his mother's herb garden. He thought of it no more, unfolded the parchment, and began to read.

_To Maedír, esteemed guard of Angmar:_

This letter will surely alarm you, as it contains many truths that have been hidden from you, truths terrible and perhaps unutterable. Yet they must be divulged. As you read, you must set your mind on trusting my word, and the word of my messenger. I do not lie. It is the past that has been woven with lies...

He read on, and as he did, his countenance darkened. He tightened his hold on the letter, tearing the edges between his forefingers, and then nearly dropped it with a frightened indeterminate cry.

_I, Lord Naurhir, am no deliverer of the Númenorean people, but the Heir of Sauron, the son of his own flesh, born that the way might be prepared for the Black Hand's return._

"Let me see that letter," said Îbal, whose eyes had been following Maedír's moving lips suspiciously. He tried to grab the parchment, but Maedír moved away, narrowing his eyes at Îbal and reading on.

_Lord Dolgubêl knows this, but has told no one but his most trusted men. He has deceived all of you, and believes wrongly that he will benefit from his scheming and silence. Indeed, he will die long before his line will profit from this evildoing. Even if this were not so, Sauron does not promise a renewed Númenor. Angmar will be a hated name, and its people will be nothing but slaves, animals in a sty._

You may be skeptical as to the implications of this confession. I would seem to say that Sauron, who was defeated more than two centuries ago, lives on! Indeed, his outward form was destroyed. But Sauron, whose spirit cannot be so easily quenched, is indeed alive. I have been in his presence...

He read quickly to the end, and looked up at the Elven lady with a look of pure fear.

"Do you know what this letter says?" he asked her.

"Yes," she assented with a nod. She looked very grave.

"Then—it's true?"

"I say, let me see that letter!" Îbal strode forward and tore the parchment from Maedír's hands. He quickly found the lines that had made Maedír cry aloud, and looked up with sharp eyes.

"Lies," he said curtly.

"You don't seem surprised at what it says," said Maedír. "That Lord Naurhir is—"

"There's no such thing," said Îbal.

But the words Maedír had meant to say did not leave him. "That Lord Naurhir is... is..."

"And even if it were true—" began Îbal.

One of the men, an Arnorian, had snatched the letter from Îbal and was in the process of reading it. With these last words, he looked up at their commander in amazement and horror. "What do you mean, 'even if it were true'? Do you mean he really is the child of... of _Sauron_?"

The small group—six soldiers and the Elf—was in an uproar. The letter passed frantically from hand to hand. Îbal looked furious. "I mean nothing! But even if he were the son of Sauron, what of it? Why not take advantage of his power? Why, Sauron certainly isn't coming back any time soon, whatever this rubbish may say to the contrary—"

A few soldiers tried to look amused, but they could not laugh.

"Have you no respect for the memory of Númenor?" continued Îbal. "We have a great mission, a great calling. What, are you not man enough to take a risk?"

Maedír felt himself momentarily swayed by the words. But a waft of rose-scent drifted past him, and he thought of his cottage on the grasslands of the Downs, of his parents and their peaceful farm. All of Îbal's harsh excuses were smoothed as if by long fingers. All seemed very clear.

"It can't be right," he said slowly. "Sauron wasn't right. If his heir wanted us to build this state and fight this war, then that can't be right."

"Don't be simple," said Îbal sourly. "Idiot ideas of right and wrong. How can anything we do to make Angmar great and strong and free be wrong? Do you doubt Lord Dolgubêl's wisdom?"

Under other circumstances, the other four soldiers would have grouped around Îbal at the very intimation of treason. Now, however, they were silent, waiting for Maedîr to answer.

"I don't know," he replied truthfully.

"Neither do I," said the last man to have read the letter. He still clutched it in his hands. "If it is true—which I still cannot say for sure—then Angmar will not be great or free, will it? More like a bent-over slave, waiting for Sauron's return."

"Traitors!" cried Îbal. "I will go to the Lord—"

"How can we be traitors?" demanded another. "If this letter's right, then we'd only be doing what's best for Angmar. Why, Maedír is no traitor; you know that."

Îbal shook his head and turned from the gathering. Something in him seemed finally subdued. "Surely this is some Elven witchery," he muttered, giving the lady a sharp glance but saying nothing more.

No one heeded his words, but all continued to discuss the possibilities of Maedír's letter.

Even as they spoke, the lady took Maedír by the arm and met his eyes once more.

"You read the end of the letter," she said. "This war must not occur. Do you believe his words? Do you understand what you must do?"

Maedír nodded once. Perhaps it was the scent that flooded his senses, but he felt at that moment that he would believe anything that this woman told him was true.

"Only one thing," he said. "Why was this letter given to me?"

The woman smiled. Her face was like the sun.

"He met you only once, a little more than a month ago, when he last came to Angmar. He was only in your presence for a few minutes. But he could have seen you for a moment and known. You have a beautiful soul, Maedír. If all men were like you, Angmar would be no iron stronghold, but a garden, carefully tended amongst the northern wastes."

She turned away, and smiled again, but this time it was a softer, sadder smile. A beautiful soul. It was, thought Arandulë to herself, the same thing she had seen in her husband.

  


Findur had apologized so many times over the past week that the repetition was beginning to worry him. Unable to trust his own motives, he could only wonder: _Do I mean this? The words feel true when I say them. But what if I'm deluding myself, and this is only a way to ingratiate everyone before I betray them? How can I trust myself to change?_

Celebrían was incensed when he alluded to these fears. Of all of them, she had reacted the most vehemently to his confession. Horror had been overshadowed by fury: not _how could this happen_, but _how could_ you _do this?_ Now, she exclaimed hoarsely, "What? Because of your parentage, are you unable to control your own actions? A poor disclaimer, Findur. You can go on as you like about the evil within you, but I think we all know the truth. It's nothing that dramatic. When I look at you, I see an irresponsible, ridiculous child, too wrapped up in trivial games to realize he is capable of actually hurting others—"

"Celebrían," said Elrond softly.

"It is only the truth," said Celebrían. "I will not spare him the truth. He would make it seem as if all our mother's suffering was in vain—"

"And now he has heard you," said Elrond, who was regarding Findur with something close to pity. It took a moment for him to realize that he was weeping. For it was true, and he hated himself for not realizing it, that all this self-fear was another layer of resistance. He knew what he was capable of. He knew that he could never consciously manipulate or injure others again, not without remembering Liniel. And now he realized a new thing: _I could have stayed. I could have stayed, here, in Imladris, all the time. I need never have fled._

_I will have to learn_, he decided. _How to watch myself. How to be careful in my actions. None of this can ever happen again._

"Findur," said Elrond, "perhaps you should wait in your room while we discuss a few things. My sons can tell me the rest."

Findur nodded quickly. He stood, wiping tears from his face with a shaky hand. He felt chagrined and relieved at once.

"I will go with him," said Liniel.

Together, they left the room.

  


While they were waiting, Findur took his wife's hands in his and told her about Mithrellas, and about the kiss they had shared in his mother's garden.

"I wasn't attracted to her," he told her. "It wasn't about that at all. I wasn't thinking clearly. I needed someone there—I needed you. Nothing made sense. It's no excuse. I'm very sorry."

Liniel leaned back on the bed, staring at the carvings of the ceiling. "I haven't King Amroth's capacity for forgiveness," she said. "And yet I find I'm utterly beyond anger."

"Not for me," said Findur. "It would be better if you were angry. I know you think you do things only for yourself, but you take them to extremes when the people you love are involved. Don't hurt yourself on my account."

Liniel looked up at him, surprised. "I suppose you're right. I didn't know that you knew that about me."

"I know," said Findur.

  


After a time, Elladan came to announce that the council had come to a decision. At least, Findur thought it was Elladan. He was not entirely sure. Enough time had passed since the emotional scene in the council room that he was able to find a little humor in this.

The room was considerably more collected than he had left it. Celebrían was unemotional, and the others looked merely tired. Findur and Liniel took their seats.

"We have discussed your situation, Findur," said Elrond. "And we have come to a decision. It is no simple matter. Even if the Eldar were accustomed to such arbitration, your actions defy simple judgment."

"I should think it quite otherwise," said Findur.

"Indeed," said Elrond. "You have allied yourself with men of evil, giving them the trappings of war in exchange for wealth. You have feigned, for some years, to be a loyal servant of Sauron. And, in these past two weeks, you have accepted the master to whom you have proclaimed allegiance to for so long, and led your people into a war that even now may not be averted. Only when you witnessed the corruption of your advisor and tutor, whose amorality you had shared in the past, did you realize what you had done.

"What does this make you, Findur? A servant of Sauron? Not wholly, for your path was wrought long before his presence was known. What is clear is your guilt in the matter. I understand what drove you to leave Imladris. It was a hard thing that you learned from Narion. But I cannot pity you for the blood in your veins. Galadriel's letter told you that you were the son of Sauron. It was you who decided what that meant.

"I have decided it best that you remain in Imladris, as long as I deem it necessary. Think of it not as an imprisonment only. Instead, let this valley be a home once more. If your repentance is sincere, your detainment need not be perennial. Once you have learned to command yourself and your abilities in a way that can never be detrimental to others, you may go where you will.

"Meanwhile—I shall watch you, Findur. Any ill purpose in your heart will be detected, any false move, hindered. You will bear no weapon without my leave—even if I thought your fighting in the war a fit burden, I would not allow it. Nor will you be permitted to engage in your work as a smith."

All eyes were on him—waiting for his reaction.

"I understand," said Findur, tempering his sense of loss with the weight of what he had done.

"And me?"

It was Liniel. The eyes that had been watching Findur swerved and stared.

"It is not for us to judge you, lady," said Elrond, a comprehending gaze surveying Liniel's face. "You have no allegiance to Imladris, and have committed no crime great enough to prompt our concern. You are free to go where you please."

"As if I would leave," muttered Liniel. Her stern forehead and narrowed eyes did not disguise, for Findur, the quivering of her lip as she realized that Elrond knew, and understood, and had forgiven.

  


In the days that followed, Findur learned what it meant to come home. It was a strange sensation, walking through the halls of his childhood with just that one name. Rediscovery, he found, was not a return. Seeing old faces, walking old paths, his reactions were colored by memories of his life in exile as well as recollections of the distant past. A mural or a flowering tree might be unchanged, but he was not, and he brought new things to each experience. Golden sunrises reminded him of the elanor of Lórinand, and his sister's hair, the hue of a Greenwood cloak.

Maybe a little of Morfindel would always be with him, after all.

The people of Imladris accepted him slowly, assessing and then embracing this strange, fragile replica of the young man they had once known. They were careful and kind and knew better than to ask too many questions. It was only a matter of time before Erelas embraced him and spoke to him of the years Findur had missed. A little later, Narion came to him with something like an apology. They talked together of Curuan and choices. It was a farewell—in the spring, Narion would go to the Havens.

He was not certain of his father. Celebrían was as overpowering in her forgiveness as in her condemnation. Her faith in his ability to change was nothing sentimental, but a force to be reckoned with. She demanded proof and progress, and was ready to strike whenever she found him being intellectually dishonest. But with Father it was different, and it took several visits spent in silence before they could have a conversation. When that day came, Findur spoke in the rambling confessional tone that had always been his parents' to hear. He said all that he could think of—the past, the prospect of war, his mother. He told him of the dream of Galadriel that had come to him the night after he had left Imladris for the second time.

"Do you think it could have been her?" he asked his father shyly. "I mean, _really_ her?"

Celeborn thought a while in silence. The account had shaken him. "I do not think it impossible," he said finally. And then: "I too, will always love you, Findur."

It would be the first of many conversations.

* * *

1. albai - Black Speech for "elf". If you'll recall from chapter 12, Dolgubêl and his lackeys have a nasty habit of using the language disdainfully towards elves, even if out of amusement.

2. Quenya - In _The Lord of the Rings_, Strider says that Bilbo translated "The Fall of Gil-galad" from "an ancient tongue." Assuming that an elf wrote it, Quenya seems to be the most likely ancient tongue. Thanks to the Encyclopedia of Arda for deducing this.


	20. Dreamflower

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.  
**Timeframe:** Late spring and summer, T.A. 265.  
**Rating:** PG-13 for themes and inexplicit descriptions of rape.

**Shadow Child  
Chapter XX: Dreamflower**

Arandulë returned with the last days of spring, at a gallop swift as the summer winds that carried her. Findur saw her approach through the gossamer curtains of his bedroom window. Immediately, he set down the figure he was idly carving—a dragon—and started for the nearest door.

He found Arandulë on a back porch, sitting on a bench across from Elrond and Liniel. As he approached, he overheard scraps of their conversation.

"—just as he said, a good man—modest but determined, not afraid to defy those loathsome Gondorians. If we in Eregion had known, we would never have thought it fit—"

Elrond said something quietly, and Arandulë laughed. "Oh, of course. And a number of the former Arnorians did stand by him. Things might have become very grave indeed if a few of Dolgubêl's own Gondorians had not balked at the prospect of fighting Arnor without Eregion's assistance. They confessed to everything. That was the final nail in Angmar's coffin."

A victory. Findur released the breath he had been unconsciously holding, feeling faint but relieved, even as he saw that he, too, had been conquered.

"What news?" he asked, stopping a few yards from the benches.

"Findur!" Liniel stood, beckoned him forward, and, to his surprise, embraced him.

"It worked," she said. "The letter was delivered. There was a coup. Don't worry," she added. "Force was not required. What with the number of Maedir's supporters and an actual confession from some of Dolgubêl's underlings, he and his followers were easily outnumbered and overtaken. The colony will deal with them as they see fit, and those who remain in Angmar will take control of the colony on their own terms."

"Word was sent to Arnor, and to some of Lord Dolgubêl's more... unusual allies in the east and south," said Arandulë. "It is over."

Findur doubted that any of this could really be over. Nevertheless, the rest of the afternoon was positively pleasant in comparison to all that had gone before. After Elrond had asked his share of questions, they spoke of Maedir and of the fates of Angmar and Eregion. Arandulë seemed especially good humored, and Liniel and Findur soon learned the reason: her husband, Halion, had accompanied Amroth to Eregion.

"We spoke for a long time," Arandulë said. "All we could agree on was that it had been miserable, being apart. And that was enough."

"I am glad for you," said Liniel, but as she spoke, an odd look came into her eyes: bitterness, he thought.

  


He had never expected to ever welcome the sight of Liniel screaming.

Relief wasn't the first word that came to mind, of course. Sitting mutely on his bed, his wife's eyes flashing and hands clenching beside him, her voice coarse and brittle as she began to enumerate every error he had made for the last two hundred years, he felt as if he were sitting next to an enraged Warg, ready to strike. Only as her screams began to shift in emphasis, with curses falling on Curuan, Dolgubêl, Sauron, and even Master Elrond, did it occur to him that this was probably as emotionally healthy an action on Liniel's part as it was well-deserved on his own. The peril had gone. Now was the time to be horrified at what might have been.

She had not screamed at him like this since the day he had left Greenwood.

Now, staring intently into the rectangular mirror that hung across from the bed, Liniel began to consider herself in terms of the bigger picture. Working the chain of her necklace between her fingers, she muttered, "And I... if I had known... if you had told me... To have listened to that traitor... redeemer of the Silvan people indeed... Oh, of course he told me just what I wanted to hear, just after I had lost that idiot mother of mine _to the same war he intended to rekindle_... to think, that I was so weak as to believe him and his ridiculous lie!"

"We've discussed this," said Findur. "You couldn't have known. He deceived us both."

Liniel wheeled to face him more swiftly than should have been possible, considering her condition. "You?" she screamed. Her face contorted with ghastly anger. "You wretched traitor, what can you possibly know of it? Do not patronize me. You were not there. You know nothing. You have never asked; you have never understood me or even wanted to and now, now you have the audacity to presume to be a formidable reference for what I could or could not have known? Deceived, you say? You knew exactly what he wanted to make of you, and so did I... I tell you, we should have known. What, is over-eagerness your defense? A mere error in caution? Oh, yes, you've made plenty of mistakes, Findur; I can see that you're regretting a few of them even as we speak. If Curuan had been a woman, would you have gone as eagerly to his bed as you did mine?"

Findur scarcely had time to feel anything but horror, for a sudden change was coming over Liniel's countenance. Her face, flushed with color from the exertion of her screaming, was growing pale. She gave a gasp, shivered, and broke into frantic tears.

Findur, without thinking, stood and went to embrace her. The form that would have shrieked and clawed at such a gesture a moment before sank into his arms, clutching at his clothing like a child. He felt the weight of her head on his shoulder, and watched the world dissolve in the haze of his own tears: not silent, as they had been hitherto, but real sobs to compliment Liniel's own. He cradled her in his arms and thought of all the truths in the words she had spoken.

After enough tears had been shed, a calmness came to them, giving Findur the presence of mind to retrieve a handkerchief from his pocket and dab away Liniel's tears. Neither spoke, but Liniel straightened her posture and took the handkerchief from him, finishing the business herself. When she was done, she drew Findur into her own embrace, kissed his forehead, and rested her chin on his shoulder, beside his ear.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"I haven't been a very good husband, have I?" said Findur, taking a seat on the bed.

"Neither of us have performed spectacularly when it came to marriage," said Liniel, sitting beside him and letting her head fall on his shoulder. "Not for lack of love."

"I never apologized for that business with the river water," said Findur.

"It's all right. I don't remember."

"That's why I'm sorry," said Findur. "You deserved it, I can assure you. You said some very cruel things."

"I probably meant none of it. I never do."

"You meant to say them, though."

Liniel sighed. "Are we such terrible people, Findur?"

"In parts, maybe. I suppose we are to change. To shuffle through ourselves, and discard of all that is rotten."

"That must be what death is like," said Liniel. "Going away, and coming back rearranged." She paused. "There is something I have wondered. About... Curuan."

Findur stiffened. To hear her say that name was the most horrible of acknowledgments.

"I wonder," Liniel went on, "if he heeded the summons of Mandos, or..." Her voice trailed off. "I don't like to think of the alternative."

Findur was taken aback by the question. But then he thought of Curuan, grinning brokenly and tumbling to the ground. He thought of the voice—_this was not my doing_—

"He would not have remained," he said. "He would have fled from Sauron's presence. If Mandos's call was the only escape—"

Liniel nodded sharply, and he did not go on. Instead, he heard his wife whisper something in the Silvan tongue, words uttered so fleetingly that they were more like wind.

  


"This is not possible! An eyewitness report, with the weight of the lord of Imladris himself behind it—"

"Findur, pray sit down," said Elrond. He had already taken a seat by the window, through which a fragrant breeze was wafting, giving Elrond's study the calming air of an arboretum.

Findur did not move. He was still clutching the letter from King Durin. He had read it three times, and had come no closer to comprehending it.

"This is ridiculous!" he cried. "Does it not concern him that, at any moment, his entire kingdom might be destroyed!"

"Come, Findur, you cannot go so far as that. Your Balrog is confined and, by all accounts, inert. It is Durin who finds the situation ridiculous: that a creature whose kind was destroyed at the end of the Third Age might be lurking beneath his city, discovered by a stranger when his own people have seen naught of it."

"Do you even believe me?"

"Of course," said Elrond. "But believing a report from an anonymous elf who, as far as Durin is concerned, never stepped foot in Khazad-dûm, is quite another matter. You know that the Dwarves keep meticulous records. You were smuggled in, and so they are convinced that Kali returned alone to Khazad-dûm thirteen years ago."

"I will go, then," said Findur. "I will make them listen. I will lead them to it, I—"

"Think carefully of what you are saying," said Elrond. "You have met with representatives of the Dwarves. They would recognize you as Naurhir. What reason would they have to trust you?" He shook his head frustratedly. "Even if you were to lead them thence: what then? You would only risk agitating the creature. There is no offensive to be taken. To attack a Balrog is madness. Defeat is almost certain, and a chance victory can only mean death for both monster and slayer. You will note that I did exact a promise that his people be cautious in their digging. They will be, at the very least, on their guard. I fear that, even if Durin were to learn the truth, he would still not abandon his mines. We cannot force our will upon him. We have done our best, Findur."

Findur looked frustratedly about the room, at the simple furniture and scattered possessions. It was an environment so alien to the entrapment he now felt.

"This is not your fault," said Elrond.

Findur looked up at the master of Imladris. His earliest vivid memories of Elrond involved various episodes of childhood mischief that had resulted badly for the general household. He could still recall the tone of his voice as Elrond chastised him for uprooting the gardens, breaking a window, and, on one occasion, actually setting a tapestry on fire. These incidents had been more-or-less accidental, and Findur now saw what his memory had conveniently censored: that Elrond, so apparently humorless at the time, had been amused by his minor misdeeds. What he had mistaken for grimness had been fairness, and for dry intellectualism, a deep-seated wisdom mingled with lively curiosity.

"Thank you for doing what you could," he said.

_To shuffle through ourselves, and discard of all that is rotten..._

He looked up at Elrond.

"Can we have this argument again next week?" he asked, with such sincerity that Elrond could only laugh in reply.

  


For two months Findur had delirious dreams of running feet, shining blades, scarecrow trees. Time blurred and overlapped. He had killed Curuan. He had forged his first sword. He would run away... from what? No language existed in his dream world; fears remained inchoate. He only knew a dark woods... a valley in flames... an unending white city beneath a starless sky.

He always woke in a dazed stupor, thoughts of flight or conquest flitting through his brain. They formed an opaque film around the dark places in his memory, a forgetfulness. It would be easy to lapse into this state, to deny all that he had learned. Repentance was ridiculous. What a vanity! Of course he would not change. He had done too much. He desired too much.

One night he dreamed of his mother's rape, which Sauron had shown him briefly the morning of his conversion. The images were too painful: nails digging into flesh, tanned, callused palms working their way against snow-pale skin, the agony of sea-blue eyes. At times he witnessed the scene detachedly, but just as often he was Sauron, bearing down on a smooth, still body, delighting in another's pain. Or he was Galadriel, struggling beneath the weight of her captor, a broken-winged bird trapped beneath dead mass.

Liniel woke him early that morning, wiping tears from his unseeing eyes, and whispered that he had been crying in his sleep. He came to himself, listened to the concern in her voice. He placed his hand very gently against her abdomen, tracing the scar there, and told her his dream.

"You cannot blame—" she began.

"I know it was not my fault," said Findur. He was tiring of the expectation of guilt on his part for Sauron's wrongs. "But... I am afraid all the same."

"Not trusting yourself?"

He shook his head, and sat up, his dark hair forming a curtain around his face.

"I was willing to accept my mother's fate. A few years more, and I might have been willing to accept yours."

Liniel's face darkened. "Findur—"

He ignored the denial in her voice. "That is where I am now," he said. "Between two worlds. If I weren't so tired..."

He let his head fall into her lap. He felt neither vulnerable nor strong. He was only Findur. She was only Liniel. What a desperate game it was, to be alive in a world of limitations.

  


One morning, after a month of speech confined to introductions and _would you please pass the tea?_, Arwen began chattering to him during breakfast as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Findur could feel his sister's eyes on him as he smiled and nodded at the appropriate places. He knew she was not afraid, merely curious as to how he would respond to this unexpected token of acceptance.

Findur did the best he could. After they had eaten, he accompanied Arwen to the stool by the window where she most liked to sit and dutifully engaged in conversation with her. He recalled that he had taken life very seriously at her age, that even the carefree frivolity of childhood had been a troublesome time, too easily upset by the machinations of adults. And so he found it very easy to speak with her, answering her usual impertinent questions and asking a few of his own: about her family, her interests, her dreams. He listened to her talk of climbing trees and learning to embroider her own stockings and reciting poetry. She recited parts of the Lay of Leithian as best she could, and asked him whom he liked best from the story.

"Finrod Felagund, I suppose," said Findur.

"I like Luthien best," said Arwen. "She was very brave. She must have been terrified... and yet she went on."

She sat on the floor, pulling her knees to her chin. "And Beren," she said thoughtfully. "Yes, I like Beren very much."

Imagine, to have a child: a small life separate from his own. Small hands, laughter. Not a possession, not merely created—more vibrant, more beautiful, than the most finely crafted diadem.

He turned to look at the others. Celebrian smiled at him; Elrond nodded. But Liniel's place at the table was unoccupied. She was gone.

  


He found her in their room. She was sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard, knees drawn up to her chin. She had a curious pensive expression on her face, one he had never seen before.

Perhaps once before.

Liniel saw him and straightened up. She beckoned him forward. She was wearing a white dress, her shoulders bare. Her hair, braided and coiled, appeared black. Sunlight, darting through the shifting leaves beside their window, played upon its strands, revealing in patterns its natural color: a deep, rich brown.

"I want to talk to you about something," she said.

"You left because you wanted to talk to me?"

There was no sarcastic response, no roll of the eyes. "I had to think about some things first."

"And have you?"

Liniel shrugged, looking frustrated and miserable. "The answer will be no. And I suppose you have the right to say it—even if your reasoning is absurd—"

Findur sat in a chair across from her. He perched on the very end of it, so that their knees met in the center. "You can't argue with me before we have the argument," he said. "That's definitely one of the rules. I at least deserve a chance to properly earn your criticism."

"Ah, but we _have_ had this argument before," said Liniel.

Findur blinked, swallowed. How odd, that their thoughts had run parallel, uncovering the same memories, the same fears. He tried to think of how to proceed.

"You're right," he said. "I did say no. Though I did a very fine job of fixing the door afterward."

Liniel looked startled.

"Sorry to divert your climactic build-up in midstream. But you must admit, an air of mystery isn't very effective when everyone involved is in on the secret." He took her hand, felt his face unaccountably redden, and told her, "I was thinking about it too."

"Of course I didn't mean right away," said Liniel. She was speaking quickly, as if afraid she might lose this intimation of consent as quickly as it had come. "We are hardly ready to—and I don't only mean you, we both need... well, time, and—"

"There is no need to worry about it," said Findur.

"That's what I mean; you shouldn't worry about it. I only wanted to make sure that you—that you—"

"Liniel," he said. "I want to have a child with you. I want to have a family. I can put it in writing and sign it if that would reassure you."

She smiled. It was a rather trepidacious smile. "You're really not afraid?"

"Of course I'm afraid," said Findur. "Even if I manage to recover from this rut—it is no small responsibility."

"No, it's not."

"There will be details to be worked out."

She nodded, seeing the seriousness in his eyes. Then she grinned. "Any child of ours is going to be spoiled terribly. I can see you now, carving your little figurines once a week, lavishing gifts on every occasion..."

"Only to make up for your insufferable miserliness."

They both laughed, and Liniel leaned forward and kissed him. With the embrace, a flood of images rushed forth from his memory. Greenwood in winter. A frozen garden on the other side of glass. He remembered his long-ago vision, Liniel's rose petal words: _the shadow is gone. Your fate is your own_. But the shadow had only grown stronger, and his future was too entwined with the chances of the world to ever claim such independence of purpose. That was what love meant.

Imagine: a family. It did not mean salvation, or an end to struggling. But now, in Imladris, it was enough.


	21. Epilogue

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.  
**Timeframe:** Winter, T.A. 1981.  
**Rating:** PG.

**Shadow Child  
Epilogue**

_Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar!  
Nai elyë hiruva! Namárië!_

Findur did not go often to the Hall of Fire, not anymore. In the old days, he would spend countless hours there, sitting alone in silence. In that warm place, emotions could be distilled into simpler desires and fears. Honestly was less alien. But years had passed and he had found himself visiting it less and less frequently, no longer dependent on the place itself to find such clarity.

He could not think why his father had asked him to come. They had already spoken for a long time the night before, a few hours after the news of Amroth's death had come. He was tired of words, of their inadequacy. That Amroth, one of his dearest friends, whose easy smile and dauntless courage had given him strength in dark times, could be utterly lost—mere language could not do such an impossibility justice.

Now he threw open the doors, and stepped inside. The room was dark save for the glow of the fire. Father was standing beside the flames, staring into their depths. He straightened up as Findur entered, turning towards him.

"You have slept badly, I see," he said after a moment of careful study. "I myself managed but a few hours. Please, come sit with me by the fire. There is something very important we must discuss."

"All right," said Findur. He was struck by the hoarseness of his own voice.

They both took seats by the fire. Father returned his attention to the flames, seeming to collect his thoughts. Findur felt a sudden apprehension come over him. Might this be more unfortunate news? So much disaster had befallen over the past year, with the unleashing of the Balrog. The last of the Dwarves had lately fled Khazad-dûm with the death of Durin's son. Lórinand had been thrown into chaos as well. Many of its people were abandoning their home, sailing West to escape the disturbances that surrounded them. Amroth, bound by a promise to his beloved, had been among them. That, too, had ended in grief. What more could there be?

Father seemed to sense his apprehension. "Indeed," he began, "I must apologize for sharing this with you now. I know that Amroth's death was a grievous blow. But the poor timing is inescapable. It is a matter connected. For a second message came from Lórinand, Findur—one that concerns you and me."

"What is it?" exclaimed Findur. "Has something gone wrong? Has there been word of Nimrodel? What—"

"Hush. Nothing like that. Nothing too terrible. It is—" He paused. "You know the importance of Lórinand. If the evil in Dol Guldur does not abate, that land will be instrumental in the defense of Middle-earth."

Findur nodded. Of course he understood Lórinand's importance—how many times had he traveled thence in past centuries? As trouble grew in the East, he had journeyed abroad, advising and investigating, acting as liaison between Eriador and Rhovanion: in short, assuming his parents' old role in that land.

"Now Lórinand is without ruler," continued Father. "Dark times are ahead of us. It should not be without leadership."

"But Amroth had no heir. Has someone been appointed?"

"Not exactly," said Father. "For Amroth did appoint an heir, before his departure. It seems he met with our friend Mithrandir in Edhellond, and they spoke long. They agreed that the bearer of Nenya should take up rule in Lórinand, in order that Sauron's strongholds in the East be defied."

"You're going, then?" This was unexpected. In the years of Greenwood's decline, merely returning to Lórinand had been difficult for his father. He had managed well despite the weight of his memories, but his unhappiness had been constantly palpable. It was thus that Findur had begun going in his stead—to spare him those unhappy visits.

Seeing his disbelief, Father hastened to explain. "Yes—I am going. But not to Lórinand, Findur."

He stopped and took his son's hand in his own.

"For many years now—and forgive me my silence, but I did not see the need to trouble you—I have—" He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. "You know that I love you, and that you have brought much joy into my life. Both you and Celebrían have. But I am tired, Findur. I might, in need, have mustered the will to remain here. But I have not the strength. So I confided to Mithrandir when we last spoke, and so he conveyed to King Amroth. I have made up my mind. Soon I will depart for the West."

Findur stared at his father. Could this be true? Celeborn's face was too familiar to his son to be fully deciphered. Long had it been clouded with sorrow and weariness, the horrors of the past year leaving these etchings indelible. Yet to translate these signs like the characters of an alphabet—it had never occurred to him.

Only now did he see, and understand, that his father was tired.

"Not soon," Father continued quickly. "I would not dream of leaving you in the hour of your grief. A few years, perhaps. I am sorry to have told you now, but it was necessary, for you see—there is the matter of my successor."

And without another word, he released Findur's hand and removed something from his finger.

Nenya.

"Me?" exclaimed Findur. "You want me to—"

"Amroth named you as his heir," said Father. "Mithrandir told him of my intentions to bequeath Nenya to you, and he agreed—"

"But I'm not fit to be a ruler! And certainly not worthy to bear a Ring of Power!"

His father managed a wry smile. "If you feel unworthy," he said, "then you will know how I have felt these two thousand years. I would be more concerned if you actually felt worthy. None of us can do perfect good. To pretend otherwise is nearly as fatal as outright will to evil. But, of course, you know that."

Findur looked at the ring. Its jewel was like a star clasped between two white hands. Yet there was a warmth to its light that was like the light of eyes. So Elbereth must have gazed upon the Earth as she fixed the constellations in preparation for the Elderborn.

"I couldn't," he said. "Not with what I've done."

"Ah. Yes. We must not be forgetting our history. Let us see, what have you done: journeying to Khazad-dûm in spite of all odds, in order to discover the Balrog—"

"But it didn't work! He had hidden it from me—it was silent—"

"The countless years you have spent beside Amroth, mediating between peoples, searching for explanations to the growing darkness around us—"

"But—"

But his father's voice would not be quelled. "Journeying," he continued, "through Rhovanion, even to Dol Guldur itself—confronting the very voice of Sauron, and coming away unscathed. Findur, that is what you have done."

He shook his head. "No. It's not the same. It doesn't undo the past."

"That is true," Father agreed. "Our ill choices are not debts, that might be canceled by good deeds. My annals are indeed incomplete. Findur, you also left your kin and homeland, threw one kingdom into chaos, then went on to form others with lies and false promises as their foundations. You would have led a blameless people in warfare against us. And in the end, you promised yourself to the worst evil of all.

"You and I both know that. The people whom you will be ruling know enough of it to understand that their new lord has a checkered past. But it is just that: past. You have forsaken that path. Look at what you have become."

"And what have I become?" asked Findur, half-knowing the answer, but afraid to believe it.

Father smiled. "I have watched you more carefully than you know. In all our dealings with the Enemy, you have never weakened, nor shirked your duty. And I have seen you with your wife, your daughters and son. That you could betray their trust for your own gain—no, I think we know you better than that. Let me remind you, you have the word of an Istar on that, not just the biased judgment of a devoted father."

Findur still stared at the ring, letting his eye move between its bright gleam and the fire that illuminated it. For a moment, he saw it: mithril inverted. A flooded valley. Beside it, an overripe vineyard, burgeoning with rotting fruit.

And he knew, then, that all his father had said was true—but it was more than that. He let his gaze fall on the ring alone. What this was—what it meant—could never be misused. Encapsulated in its rays were beauty, and purity, and love of all things dear. To use it for ill purpose would be to pervert the thing itself: destroying the tool in the wielding of it. It would no longer be Nenya. He would no longer be Findur.

Then he looked up, and saw his father's face—so familiar, with its weary, almost haunted countenance. _How long has he worn that face? Since she left? Since the war began?_

Perhaps since the Noldor landed their ships, and the moon first rose in the sky.

"You have lost so much," he said.

"And yet I have gained so much," said his father, and embraced him. Thus they remained, both weeping a little for the partings of the past, and those that were to come. Finally, they separated.

"Are you ready?" asked his father.

"Yes," said Findur.

Then Father kissed his brow, and put the ring on his finger. His mother's ring. It felt strange against his skin, an unexpected weight.

His mother's ring. In his mind's eye, he could see her smile.

"Over time, you will learn to wield it," said his father. "I will be here to teach you."

And now she was laughing, her golden hair catching the sun as she turned her head toward him. Her face was radiant with mirth, eyes alive as he had never seen them. Then her smile softened.

_I will always love you, Findur._

Footsteps could be heard in the outside corridor, and with them came voices. Findur listened, and knew each one: Celebrían's silvery voice. Elrond's sonorous baritone. His wife's low murmuring, compelling as the tides. Intermingled with them all were Elwen's bright tones: the voice of his eldest daughter.

He met his father's eyes, and nodded. Together they rose, and went out of the hall. Celebrían and Elwen met him with embraces, and Liniel with a kiss. No words passed between them. Silent indeed would the day be, as all of Imladris mourned for Amroth, last king of Lórinand.

* * *

Opening quote: Another snippet from Galadriel's Lament:  
_Farewell! Maybe thou shalt find Valimar!  
Maybe even thou shalt find it! Farewell!_

On the last line: Yes, Amroth is the last king of Lórinand. Findur, like Galadriel and Celeborn in the canon timeline, will be lord, not king, of that land.


End file.
